


Endless Night

by The_Kapok_Kid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Brotherly Love, But a happy ending of sorts, Dark Stuff, Gen, Implied Relationships, Reggie is brilliant, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kapok_Kid/pseuds/The_Kapok_Kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Christmas of the year 1977, and Sirius Black is teetering on the edge of madness. When one careless deed brings his world crashing down around him, with far-reaching consequences, Regulus Black has to step in and help his brother piece together the fragments of his life – if he can stop himself from being sucked into the terrifying vortex alongside Sirius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Title taken from William Blake's _Auguries of Innocence._.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My wish for you, is that one day, you will become one of them, shine just as brightly.”

_10th March, 1960._  
  
_“Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament, and those who turn many to righteousness like the stars forever and ever.”_  
  
_\- Daniel 12:13_

 

It was the night of the tenth of March, nineteen hundred and sixty. It was the first night of spring, for spring had come early to the Yorkshire moors that year. And what a beautiful spring it was. The night was cloudless, the air sparkled like champagne; a brisk wind blew northeast, rustling the ferns and the night flowers, fleetly winging its way through the low-grown heather, and flinging sweet scents into the lairs and dens of the moor foxes, rabbits and hedgehogs. Thousands of stars were strewn across the skies, minute pinpricks of shimmering, luminous light, harbingers of hope and peace and righteousness, and all that is good and new and refreshing in this world.  
  
And it was on this night that the baby was born.  
  
The little whitewashed cottage stood at the edge of the moor, a stone’s throw from the tiny bridge that ran overhead the stream that separated the hamlet village from the wide, open expanse of the moor and dales. It was night, so a reverent hush lay upon the land, broken only by the sporadic hooting of the barn owls in the oaks scattered around. Yellow glimmers of lamplight shone out from the windows, and upstairs, the shadow of human figure fell upon the curtain, obliterating the glow within.  
  
Hope Lupin lay on the bed, ruddy with exhaustion after having pushed a very unwilling baby out. She was now gazing down fondly at said baby, who was fast asleep, swaddled and rosy, beside her. The shadowed figure, who had been pacing up and down the hearth, now rose up next to her, and evolved into the person of Lyall Lupin. He sat beside his wife on the bed, and took her hand.  
  
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hope beamed, and with a finger, gently caressed the sandy curls on her son’s head.  
  
“Yes, he is,” Lyall agreed, also gazing down at his son with love. “And so are you, my dear,” he added to her, and, leaning forward, kissed her softly. It was the truth. Hope had always been a very beautiful woman – beautiful in the best sense of the word; a liveliness of disposition and a sweetness of temperament mixed well with a finely tuned moral compass was borne out well by her face and smile. And tonight, flushed with love and excitement, she was radiant indeed.  
  
“And what would you like to name him?” Lyall continued, taking hold of one small fist and smiling when tiny fingers curled fast around his own.  
  
“John, after St. John, I think. The youngest and the brightest, and it will be fitting to name our little one after Him who was loved best.” She smiled down at the sleeping child. “That makes a fine second name, and you shall choose the first. What shall it be?” And Hope looked up enquiringly.  
  
“Well – I was thinking of…Remus, actually.” He broached the subject hesitantly, aware that his wife was not fond of that particular tale. As anticipated, a cloud passed across her face, and Lyall could not but regret causing her even an instant of unhappiness.  
  
“Look you, dear, are you being sure that’s wise?” Hope asked, her native Welsh cadence seeping into her tones through concern.  
  
“I – I think so, Hope. There’s always been someone in my family in every generation named after that myth, and I’d like our son to bear that name.”  
  
The lines on his wife’s brow did not fade. “I understand, Lyall,” said she, “I really do, but why Remus? Surely – Romulus is a better name…the name of the victor?”  
  
“I don’t particularly care for Romulus, even though he _was_ the victor. He killed too, remember. It was a hollow victory. His hands were stained with blood; I wish my son to bear the mark of innocence.”  
  
Hope’s brow cleared. “Well, I do suppose that reasoning is…somewhat credible – though I am doubtful, still.” She gently stroked one chubby cheek, and broke into a smile when a tiny dimple appeared on the baby’s chin. “However, it is your choice, and I will agree. So is that settled?”  
  
Lyall smiled, and touched his son’s head gently. “Remus John Lupin,” he murmured. “My blessed little one.” As though his words had been heard, the little boy awoke, and warm, curious chocolate brown eyes stared into Lyall’s own.  
  
He felt his face breaking into a smile, and looked up to find a matching one gracing his wife’s face. “He awakens,” Lyall whispered, reverently, almost. The baby’s eyes followed him. “What do we want for you, Remus? What do we want for our son?”  
  
“I know what I want for our son,” Hope whispered back, loath to break the holy hush that had fallen in that magical instant when their baby opened his eyes. She picked him up, swaddling clothes and all, and padded softly to the window. Lyall followed, and curled an arm around her waist.  
  
“Do you see the stars, Remus?” She asked, low, and the baby cooed, as though in agreement. “Do you see, little one, how brightly they shine, away up there? My wish for you, is that one day, you will become one of them, shine just as brightly.”  
  
Her voice dropped still lower, mingling, and almost lost amidst the late spring winds that blew in through the open windows, bespattering their faces with dew and the promise of the first rains of the season. “A star is a leader, a guide, and one day, you shall be such a one, and guide many to goodness and righteousness.”  
  
Lyall’s embrace tightened, and he too, bent down to touch his lips to the child’s head. “We ask not for wealth, nor worldly success,” he said softly to his son. “We ask that you will be a beacon for good, for hope, and for happiness.” He traced one star in the sky, the brightest and closest of them all. “Be loving in your heart, and forgiving in your ways. Do that, my son, and you will be the true victor.”  
  
Hope’s fingers closed over his own, reassuring and uplifting in their very warmth. “All we ask of you, Remus John Lupin,” she said softly, eyes still fixed on the stars, “is that you will be a good man, please God.”  
  
Somewhere far away, an owl hooted. The wind picked up as it swooped in down from the fells around the moors, and the flames in the lamps flickered, but did not extinguish; they continued to glow brightly, framing the still silhouettes of the small family that stood at the window of the little cottage, and looked up in prayer to the mighty heavens.

 

_To be continued..._


	2. Endless Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Considering that I am a werewolf myself, don’t you think it’s natural for me to think of taking up a project like that?”

_December, 1977._  
  
_Some are born to sweet delight_ ,  
  
_Some are born to endless night._  
  
_\- William Blake, Auguries of Innocence._  


 

It is nearing Christmas of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Sirius Black is teetering on the edge of madness.  
  
Or so he categorically denies, both to himself and to his friends, when they do make a point of it, except in such rare moments of soul-searching wherein eighteen year old boys occasionally indulge; in the dark of night behind conveniently heavy cubicle curtains, or on solitary walks along the edge of the lake, but only when he is alone, and never in the company of his friends. He is not quite certain what this madness is; it surely cannot be the chilling thrill that births in the pit of his stomach and makes his way outward, setting alight every nerve from fingertips to toes whenever he is aware that danger lurks nearby, or worse yet, the half-shameful prickle of elation along the edge of his spine when a careless word or deed brings an expression of hurt to a friendly face.  
  
It is not, he thinks, a lack of conscience, per se, but rather, the dormancy of said conscience – it is notoriously hard to awaken. There are only two people who have successfully roused it so far – the first is his brother Regulus (and what a smug prat he had been about it, too), and the other, one mild-eyed and pink-cheeked Remus Lupin. Even James Potter, whom Sirius would go so far as to identify as his other half – the worse half, if you please – had not had much success in that endeavour.  
  
These thoughts are hovering on the edge of his subconscious as he sits beside the fireplace with his three friends on this chilly winter evening, watching the flames spitting and sparking, and wishing that the git Snape was to hand, with the fire so close so as to be able to chuck him into it. And he is not paying any attention whatsoever to Remus, who is holding forth about something-or-the-other.  
  
Until a stray word catches his ear and makes him look up.  
  
-“start this Christmas if possible”-  
  
Sirius pulls his scarf closer and leans forward, reluctantly casting aside all thoughts of pyromurdering Snape. “Start what, Moony?”  
  
“Start the home, of course.”  
  
Sirius looks nonplussed. He hastily racks his brains to dig up any scrap of long forgotten information on whatever this new idea maybe, but it is a vain effort. His brain provides him with its customary blank slate. So he attempts to sound somewhat less than completely clueless. “What home are you talking about?”  
  
Remus begins to sigh, the soft sound barely audible above the sibilant hiss of the fire, but turns it into a half-laugh instead, when his friend turns on him what is popularly known as the best _puppy-eyes_ at Hogwarts. “I should have known,” Remus says, “I’ve been talking about this for two weeks at least, but you haven’t been listening to a word, have you?”  
  
“Er” –  
  
“He was probably too busy thinking of new ways to murder Snape,” Peter interjects, popping a meaty chestnut into his mouth, and hitting the nail on the head with his customary uncanny accuracy.  
  
Sirius’ cheeks turn pink. “I just got carried away for a few minutes. Please, Moony, tell me what it is?”  
  
“Why should he?” James asks, and pokes Sirius in the stomach with his elbow. “You’ve been too busy doing what – daydreaming? – to even lend a sympathetic ear to your best friend, haven’t you?”  
  
The attempted guilt trip does not work; Sirius has, through many years spent among the denizens, living and non-living, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, been made impervious to all such tactics. The elbow to his flesh does work; James is thin, all sharp limbs and angles. Sirius doubles up, grunting in pain and rubbing the area vigorously.  
  
His friends appear unaffected by his injury. Peter even guffaws.  
  
Sirius thinks penalties for cobbing should not be confined to the Quidditch pitch only.  
  
He rolls his eyes. “You had your fun. My curiosity is now sufficiently aroused. Please, do divulge your information.”  
  
Remus raises an eyebrow. He is not one for beating about the bush. “A home for werewolves.”  
  
_“WHAT?”_  
  
And Sirius tumbles off his chair onto the hearth rug just below.  
  
He stays there, open-mouthed and spluttering, looking for all the world like a fish out of water. The fire spits unexpectedly, and sparks jump out, landing near his arm on the rug. It brightens for a second, then turns to black, singeing a hole in the rich material, allowing the wooden planks below to surface. And then he jumps in his turn as the next shower of sparks land on his head. For a moment, he panics as the smell of burnt hair invades his nostrils, but then manages to still his quickening heartbeat when he notices that only the ends of his fringe are singed.  
  
His friends sit back in their chairs and eye him in mild amusement, and make no move to help him up. And, in spite of the discomfort of one foot twisted unpleasantly underneath him and the other lying dangerously close to the fire, Sirius is glad to be spared the embarrassment of being bodily lifted up.  
  
It is all of twenty seven seconds before he manages to extricate himself from the tangle of hearth rug, armchair and roasted chestnut shells on the floor, and take his place next to James once more. “What’s brought this on, Moony?” He demands, once he has recovered sufficient equanimity.  
  
“Considering that I _am_ a werewolf myself, don’t you think it’s natural for me to think of taking up a project like that?”  
  
It is a fair point, but Sirius does not pause to consider it. He waves away the question impatiently. “No, no, what I meant was, why have you decided to do something about it so suddenly? There isn’t a sharp increase in the number of unregistered child werewolves running around who need your help, is there? There hasn’t been anything in the papers about it.” His brow furrows as he watches his friend’s eyes darken slightly.  “Or have I missed something?”  
  
Remus hesitates.  
  
_Open mouth. Insert foot._  
  
In that moment of silence, the wind picks up outside, and rattles against the window pane. Moisture trickles down the glass and hardens, forming minute icicles that glisten in the dying sunlight.  The pause is pregnant, expectant. Sirius counts the icicles still forming, gazing at them through half closed eyes, and lets the quietness linger.  
  
James shifts uneasily. Peter leans forward to stoke the fire. It does not crackle.  
  
Remus cracks first.  
  
“Ah, there has been something,” he says, softly. The chocolate eyes are pained. “The werewolf who bit me when I was a child – he’s started to come after my family again.”  
  
For an instant, Sirius is robbed of breath.  
  
“How – what – when – did he bite someone? Your mother? Your father – are they all right?” Sirius’ mind is whirling with questions, and his voice cannot keep up.  
  
James lays a soothing hand on his arm. “Calm down, Pads,” he murmurs. “If – if that had happened, Remus wouldn’t be sitting here with us like this, would he?”  
  
“My parents are all right,” Remus assures him. “Dad has put up the strongest wards he can manage around our house. So Mum is perfectly safe. And Dad can look after himself. He’s constantly alert – it’s an ingrained habit. I’m afraid it’s my cousins who aren’t all right.”  
  
“Cousins?” Peter is the first to pick up on the plural form of the word. His own question is laced with undertones of unease, borne of an awareness of the sensitivity of the subject. “How many of them?”  
  
“Two, as of now.” Remus smiles grimly, the firelight sharply illuminating the darkened hollows of his cheeks. Cheeks, Sirius realises, that are a great deal thinner than they were two weeks ago. “He’ll be after the rest of them soon, I’ve no doubt. Whether he’ll manage to actually nab them, is another matter. Anyway, he bit my mother’s sister’s sons. They’re Muggles – so they were absolutely defenceless.”  
  
_Surely not._ Even Muggles, without the supreme and effective defence of magic – Stunning spells, Blasting curses and the like – are not wholly without means to defend themselves. They have guns and bombs, weapons of human war, but equally effective as any magical means in the fight against werewolves. And oftentimes they are quicker than purely magical methods, and thus are adapted by many wizards for the execution of convicted werewolves.  
  
Werewolves habitually gather in lonely spots, whether by pack – as many chose to live – or alone, for transformation, as those who chose to live among wizards did – they choose the wildest areas known to man on the British Isles; the lonely shires moors, far from civilisation, populated only by isolated hamlets, or the cold, bleak, mountainous terrain in the north of the country, in its caves and crevices, or yet further uninhabitable, the rocky, treacherous coastlines so beloved by smugglers and pirates of centuries past. There are, scattered even in these remote places, small pockets of Muggles – villages and communities accustomed to such hardships as the geography offered – and those who revel in them.  
  
And from these communities spring the old wives’ tales, the tales of solitary wolves who hunt children at the dawn of the full moon, the hulking Grims, great black dogs who speed across the countryside, spreading death and destruction in their wake, banshees, whose death-wail is sung each twilight to summon new-born infants. These are the tales spread among the Muggles, labelled as superstitions by the townsfolk, never dreaming that they had basis in truth, that they were more than supposed-mythology.  
  
It is little wonder then, that these stories are encouraged by the magical communities themselves – it affords a double protection; Muggles on the outskirts of civilisation are reluctant to leave their homes at night, and thus reduce the risk for magical beings, of being seen, or harassed.  
  
“That’s not always the case, Pads,” says a gentle voice to his left, and turning, Sirius discovers that he has spoken his thoughts aloud.  
  
“What do you mean?” He asks.  
  
“What you said is true – the rumours were encouraged to keep both wizards and Muggles safe, but that protection has waned in recent years.”  
  
Remus picks up the explanation from James. “With time, Muggles have become less trusting, less fearful of superstitions, and when cities and towns encroached onto the territories of the wizarding community, little by little, they in turn withdrew even further. There aren’t many who are even aware of the tales these days, and so – when innocent people happen across werewolves on a full moon night…well…”  
  
Sirius sucks in a breath. He forgets, often, that the well-stocked library at Grimmauld Place, rich in the history and tales of wizardkind though it is – and rich in darker, more sinister knowledge as well – hardly keeps up with the rapidly changing world outside. “Is – is that what happened to your cousins?” He asks.  
  
“Yes,” Remus says, and the shadow across his eyes deepens slowly. “Though in this case, I do know the werewolf positioned himself close to my cousins, ready to strike…he’d been shadowing them for a while, but they didn’t know.”  
  
Peter leans forward, takes the newly roasted chestnuts off the fork they are stuck on, and presses them, still warm and smoking slightly, into Remus’ palm, a gesture of friendship, of quiet reassurance. Remus smiles in return, a wordless acknowledgement.  
  
“School had just let out for Christmas, and they’d been out to dinner. They live about fifty miles away from us – just beyond the moor, but it’s still rather…wild…around the place. They were walking back; it was still a lovely night in spite of the frost, you see, with full moon shining so brightly…and that’s when – when it happened.” Remus’ voice is quiet, composed as it always is, and there is no give at all, except the shadow of a quiver at the ends of his lips. “The older boy – Jack, he’s twelve – was badly scratched, but he’ll be all right. But the small one – Davy, he’s only seven – he…well, they _think_ he’ll be a full werewolf… _if_ he recovers, at all.”  
  
Hot, empty nut shells slip between pink fingers, rattling off the floorboards as they fall. The frost has let up, the windows are now a hodgepodge of damp patterns. Peter’s short breaths are loud, harsh and out of place in their quiet little circle. To Sirius’ left, James shifts uneasily. It is he who raises the next question: “Is he at St. Mungo’s?”  
  
“No. They refused him admittance because he’s a Muggle. We didn’t tell them that he was bitten by a werewolf. Dad sent my Healer to them…he says they have to wait until the next full moon to know, for certain. But Davy is very ill; all we can do is hope that he will recover.”  
  
“If it’s as bad as that, don’t you think it is better if – if he doesn’t recover at all?”  
  
The moment the words have left his lips, Sirius knows that he has made a terrible mistake. Peter’s breathing suddenly stops; the ensuing stillness is sharp. James elbows him again. This time, he cannot feel the pain. Remus’ eyes turn towards him, bright, bright, chocolate eyes, hardened now with an edge of steel that casts shivers down his spine.  
  
Sirius takes his cue from James and opens his mouth to apologise, but Remus speaks first. “Do you know,” he says softly, I used to think that way myself, until quite recently?” The brown gaze is fixed on Sirius now, and he stares into its iron depths, unable to look away.  
  
“I thought death was preferable to this curse – that is was an infinitely sweeter prospect that living with myself – this _monster_ that I had become. It was like living through an endless night, never seeing the dawn.” A heave of the sweater-clad chest. “I was obsessed, for a while, I wanted a way out. I did come very close…very, very close.” Bitterness tints the edge of that gentle smile. “If my parents hadn’t found me in time… my mother was ill for weeks afterwards. That was the first time I’d really seen Dad not knowing what to do.” Another sharp intake of breath, and a slight softening of the hardened gaze. “I thought I was useless, redundant: a freak of nature. In the process, I forgot that I was, to two people at least, the most precious thing in the world.”  
  
And, looking at the shimmer in those clear eyes, Sirius wonders whether _he_ is anybody’s precious thing.  
  
“So you see,” Remus continues simply, “My aunt and uncle want Jack and Davy to live, too. They aren’t equipped to look after a werewolf, and if the Ministry should hear of it, they’ll certainly be put down. So I thought – and my parents agree – that we should take them in, for a few months at least, until they adapt to their new life…and the transformation.”  
  
“And thus the werewolf home is born. I see,” Sirius murmurs. “It’s a good idea, Moony. I take that these are all under-the-table, cloak-and-dagger arrangements?”  
  
Remus chuckles. “Of course. I can just imagine what the Ministry would say if they knew about it.”  
  
James laughs now, and vanishes the scattered nut shells with an elegant sweep of his wand. “I’d love to see their faces if ever they knew.” He grins. “Say Dolores Umbridge, for instance. Or that git Macnair.”  
  
Peter murmurs his assent through another mouthful of chestnuts. Sirius rather thinks he would like to see his father’s face – or his cousin Bella’s, that would be perhaps even more amusing – if these plans were revealed to him.  
  
And for one fleeting moment, he toys with the idea of doing just that.  
  
“I’ll help you with your plans, Moony,” he says instead, summoning up a smile, and tries hard not to think how, with the utterance of a single phrase, he has the power to end the lives of more than a few innocent and goodly people.  
  
Madness, he thinks, is surely an endless night.

 

_To be continued..._


	3. Friends Like Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is seven days before Christmas of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Regulus Black is fantastically lucky.

_time of fear a friend  
time of adversity a brother  
time of laughter, a comrade_  
  
  _– Adrian Wait, I Am My Brother’s Keeper._  
   
  
It is seven days before Christmas of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Regulus Black is fantastically lucky.  
  
Or so he says to himself, every morning before breakfast, and every night just before bed. And having said it aloud for many years, it should be no hardship to believe it. If the Red Queen had decreed that one can believe six impossible things after breakfast, to convince yourself of one half-truth _before_ breakfast, no less – for Regulus is certainly not much of a breakfast eater – should be easy.  
  
Some days, he believes it. On other days, he reminds himself that he is lucky that he has friends to remind him of it. Friends like Evan Rosier. Like Severus Snape. Like Barty Crouch.  
  
Barty is sitting next to him, now, in the window seat at the far western corner of the Great Hall, watching Regulus watch the Christmas decorators put up the trees, the wreaths and the paper chains. _Supervision_ , Slughorn called it as he wrote down Regulus’ name in curling script on a yellowed scrap of parchment. There is, in reality, precious little supervision to do. The volunteers are all seniors – fifth-year and above, and well able to handle the charms and spells needed to levitate, twist, curl or mould the paper and foliage that make up the bulk of the decorations.  
  
There is a hum of chatter in the room. It starts slowly, softly, in clusters at the centre of the hall, and then spreads as the minutes tick by, like the strands of a web, helped along by cheerful adolescent voices, out to the corners, to the corridors, to the courtyards. White noise is always a nuisance. It fills his ears like the buzzing of a meddlesome bee, and the voices are never distinct enough to understand the words. Stray phrases find their way across to him every few minutes; his brain is tired of trying to disentangle scrambled threads of stories from one another, of trying to find meaning where there is none.  
  
So he sits on the sill and dangles his feet over the edge, idly turns a holly leaf over and over between his fingers, and tries to block out the commotion.  
  
“You’re lucky, Regulus,” Barty remarks.  
  
Regulus turns to face his friend. Barty Crouch is a man of few words, a distant and mysterious figure, prone to taking refuge behind a veil of succinct and cryptic remarks.  But Regulus knows well the measure of his friend, and can usually fathom the meaning behind even his most obscure phrases.  
  
But not always.  
  
“You tell me that so many times a day, but each time you attach a different meaning to it, so how am I supposed to know what you’re thinking this time around?”  
  
Barty’s eyebrows join in the middle, a straight red line across the milky freckled forehead. “You _know_ what I mean.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
Barty’s lip juts out. It looks absolutely ridiculous, and Regulus tickles it with the holly leaf.  
  
Barty gags. “Quit it, you brute!”  
  
Regulus laughs. “Oh, so _that’s_ what you meant. Do you know, if you hadn’t told me straight up, I never _would_ have figured it out.” In the six years that Regulus has been studying his friend, he has discovered – to his immeasurable delight – that Barty Crouch is extremely susceptible to teasing.  
  
The holly leaf is suddenly plucked from his hand. Barty folds it in half, and then into quarters, creasing it neatly along the edges.  
  
Regulus raises an eyebrow, and waits.  
  
“You’re the Black Heir,” Barty says eventually.  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“You’re as good as. You will be, before the year is out.”  
  
“What makes you so sure of that?”  
  
Barty shrugs, raising an eyebrow in his turn.  
  
No,” Regulus says. “My brother is – will be.” He snatches back the leaf from his friend’s hands, crumbles it to dust, scatters it over the flagstone floor. “He’s the right person for it, the best suited. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.”  
  
“You can’t pretend that he isn’t at the end of his tether. I won’t be surprised if he ups and leaves during the hols…I’m astonished that he hasn’t run away already, actually, Reg.”  
  
Regulus scowls. “I’ve told you, don’t call me Reg.” He does not contradict Barty. He knows Sirius often thinks of running away. Memories of whispers, confessions in moments of weakness come flooding back...the hitch in his brother’s breath, gasping sobs muffled by pillows in the aftermath of yet another row. War had been declared just the last summer when Sirius had brought back a Muggle transport system of some sort – a tomobike, Regulus thinks it is called – and proceeded to enchant it.  
  
But however many times Sirius has threatened to leave home, he has not left.  
  
“He won’t leave,” Regulus replies calmly.  
  
Barty waggles a sceptical eyebrow and turns his idle hands to the mistletoe in the box next to him. “How d’you know?  He might pull a Houdini in the night, and you’ll wake up to an empty bed.”  
  
“That will not happen.” And it will not ever happen, if Regulus has any say in the matter. All those nights spent next to his brother on a tear-soaked pillow, the soothing murmurs, the platitudes and excuses that are but poorly hidden pleas should not – will not – be in vain. There are few things that Sirius finds irresistible. Regulus has long learnt that the entreaties of a wide-eyed baby brother is one of them.  
  
“Anyway,” Barty continues, changing tack, “why didn’t you go home for Christmas this time?”  
  
“Mother and Father are in France. Bit of a bummer, going back to an empty house.”  
  
“Kreacher.”  
  
Regulus levitates a paper chain with his wand, twisting into an elaborate bow in mid-air, then affixes it to the window frame above their heads. “Kreacher’s getting on now. His spirits aren’t the best when my parents are away. Makes for a bit of a dismal season.”  
  
Barty snorts. He has a wonderful collection of snorts, varying from the very subtle – only to be used in McGonagall’s classes – to the very loud, reminiscent of the trumpeting of an elephant. This time, he uses his disbelieving snort; short, sharp and harsh. “Not what I heard.”  
  
“I told Severus exactly the same thing as I’m telling you now.”  
  
“However, what he _thinks_ is a different matter entirely.”  
  
Regulus’ shoe thuds viciously against the stone half wall beneath his seat. “I’m perfectly happy at home, thank you.”  
  
_Liar,_ Barty’s blue eyes say.  
  
Regulus turns his head away.  
  
 

* * *

  
  
The decorations are more than halfway complete. Gaily coloured paper chains, flashing green, red, and gold in turn bedeck the stone floor and run the contours of the ceiling. Entwined wreaths of holly and ivy adorn every conceivable corner and crevice of the window-hollows, framing a pretty picture of a lowering sky and whirling flurries of snow. The twelve gigantic Christmas trees are already in position across the hall, green branches weighed down with still-melting snow, swarms of live fairies glittering in clouds overhead. In one corner, Flitwick squeaks about on a large stepladder, levitating candles towards the ceiling, in the other, McGonagall transfigures the wandering twigs of a Flutterby bush into sparkling icicles.  
  
The chatter is growing louder now, becoming ever more discernible, charging with excitement, the higher pitch of girls’ voices becoming audible over the general cacophony.  
  
Barty snorts again, an amused sort of snort. “Mistletoe,” he says. He cranes his neck towards the entrance.  
  
“How d’you know,” Regulus replies automatically, loath to turn his gaze from the snow storm outside.  
  
“Girls,” Barty says, and a note of deep scorn reverberates in his voice. Regulus bites his lip, and tries to stop the corners of mouth turning up. He is suddenly reminded of Severus.  
  
“Where is Severus?” He asks.  
  
“Dungeons,” comes the reply.  
  
“Putting up baubles for Slughorn, is he?”  
  
“Nope. Hiding.”  
  
“Ah. His customary pastime, then.  And what about Evan? Don’t tell me he’s hiding somewhere too.”  
  
Barty shreds the sprig of mistletoe, tears off a leaf and polishes his Prefect badge with it. Flakes of dust fall away. It catches the light from the candle and glimmers, the minute silver and green snake seemingly alive for an instant. “Stalking Deirdre.”  
  
Regulus frowns. He cannot recall who Deirdre is.  
  
“Deirdre Selwyn. Ravenclaw bint. Been interested for about half a year now.”  
  
“Oh.” His brow furrows. Despite a well-deserved reputation for perception and foresight, Regulus has not observed this phenomena.  
  
“Been making eyes at each other at every Prefect’s meeting so far.”  
  
Barty’s gaze catches his, and holds it, locks it, in a fist of iron. “You’d have noticed sooner if you weren’t so busy noticing that Gryffindor Prefect instead.”  
  
Heat creeps up Regulus’ spine beneath his coat, tickling his flesh with outstretched fingers, awakening goose bumps where they land. He does not need a mirror to ascertain the crimson flush of blood that maculates his cheeks and the tips of his fingers. He seeks desperately to cast his eyes elsewhere, to escape from the fortress his friend has made of him with those eyes, but it is no easy task.  
  
Barty’s gaze bores into his; clear, knowing, unforgiving.  
  
The goose bumps spread along his arms, down his legs, even along his shoulder blades in spite of the green striped muffler carefully arrayed around his throat.  
  
Teeth slice into his lips, and the blood pools salty and bitter under his tongue.  
  
A murmur escapes Barty, he drops his gaze. Air fills Regulus’ lungs. “Take care,” Barty says. The words are soft, the lips barely moving. _“Watch your step.”_  
  
Regulus can only nod, and turn away for the second time that evening.  
  
A gale of laughter drifts towards them from the entrance; joyous boyish tones, bell-like and clear. “Keep away, you girls, don’t crowd around all at once like that,” a pleasantly deep voice says. “The mistletoe might get a fright and grow legs and run away, and then where’d you all be, I ask you?”  
  
The sound of girlish giggles and disclaimers follow. Regulus’ shoulder twitches. He does not like high pitched voices.  
  
“Not at all,” come the deep tones again. “Line up, nice and orderly, and I’ll guarantee you all shall a have a fair chance at a snog from the great and wonderful Sirius Black – unless you’d prefer one from Petey-poo here instead.”  
  
Feminine twitters, and amongst them, the voice of a different male, raised in playful protest.  
  
And then it rings out, echoing across the space, as joyous as the first, a familiar, bark-like laugh, deep throated and husky.  
  
Regulus whips his head around so fast that a sharp pain shoots across his neck.  
  
“Your brother.”  
  
“Congratulations,” Regulus snaps at Barty. “Your propensity for stating the obvious is astonishing.”  
  
Barty just laughs.  
  
“Now I suppose we’ll have anarchy and catastrophe and chaos and all the rest of it,” Regulus grumbles, twisting the last of the mistletoes from his own box, and preparing to slide off the window seat. “Pity. I was enjoying the peace.”  
  
Still, he casts a wary eye over to the opposite side of the hall where his brother and his two friends – Regulus notes that one is absent – have moved, with one or two hopeful girls in tow. Sirius and his Siamese twin Potter, the owner of the deep and mellow tones, divest themselves of copious amounts of mistletoe they are wearing around their persons, and deposit them in an untidy heap on the floor at their feet. Thawing snow shakes itself loose from the leaves, running tiny rivers across the stones, and dripping into the cracks between them. Filch, mopping up debris around one of the large Christmas trees, casts a sweeping glare at them. They are not intimidated, merely acknowledging his disapproval with a cheery wave of the hand. Regulus, also caught up in the gaze, can do no more than grin apologetically at Filch, and drop his eyes to his own pursuits.  
  
Fifteen minutes pass in relative peace. Regulus tells off three fifth year Hufflepuffs who attempt to levitate one hundred bundles of streamers simultaneously, but succeed in levitating Professor Flitwick off his ladder instead, Barty amuses himself by charming the dried needles scattered around the room to whirl in a tiny tornado around Filch, Evan emerges from a side corridor with his lady love, waves vaguely in their direction, and disappears down another corridor again. Laughter picks up in his brother’s corner, and girls’ excited squeals rise once more above the buzz, and Regulus tries very hard not to think of what his brother maybe doing with the mistletoe.  
  
Regulus is trying to remove some prickly pine needles embedded in a wriggling Barty’s shoulder when the crash comes.  
  
It comes unheralded, suddenly and loudly; a great whoosh of rushing air, a heavy rustling and snapping and crunching, then a _crash-thud-bump_ that beats a mighty tattoo on the eardrums. Everyone in the great hall turns, in one accord, to find one of the Christmas trees on the floor, its branches smashed and mangled, the candles, baubles and streamers rolling merrily across the stones, and the fairies screaming shrilly and flying in spirals overhead.  
  
“Damn,” comes a plaintive voice, and a flesh coloured blob half hidden beneath the green disentangles itself from another flesh coloured blob, and evolves into the person of Sirius Black.  
  
A shout of laughter makes its way around the circle of onlookers, but Regulus only shifts nervously on one foot. His brother has a positive genius for making a fool of himself, but any moment now –  
  
“Do you think this a suitable place for a public exhibition, Mr Black?”  
  
Professor McGonagall has arrived.  
  
Regulus feels a stinging pain just above his eyes. His hands have involuntarily assaulted his forehead.  
  
“No need to facepalm,” comes Barty’s amused voice next to him. “You should be used to this by now.”  
  
“Humiliation by association,” Regulus parries back, scrambling off his ledge. “My brother specialises in it. Come on, let’s go and see if I can minimise the damage somewhat.”  
  
 

* * *

  

Sirius has worked himself loose from the tree, and stands, shaking himself free of stay leaves, rather like a dog. The other blob of flesh is now a girl, Regulus notices. Whirly Williams, a rather pretty Ravenclaw in his brother’s year. Professor McGonagall affixes Sirius with stern glare over her spectacles. “Black,” she says, “now that we have confirmed that you and Miss Williams are both quite undamaged, will you enlighten me as to the cause of this – this mass destruction?”  
  
“I slipped,” the culprit says disarmingly.  
  
McGonagall’s eyebrow rises in magnificent ire. “That, I find quite possible to believe. And I presume you took down Miss Williams with you for the joy of it?”  
  
Sirius shifts from one foot to another. “Er – not exactly. I was trying to untangle the mistletoe…got tangled up myself and slipped on one of the strands. Whirly – Wilhelmina – was trying to help.”  
  
McGonagall sighs and shakes her head. “Black, I expect an eighteen year old boy – and the Gryffindor Quidditch captain at that – to be able to do battle with a simple tree and not get bested.” The glare intensifies. Sirius looks genuinely contrite.  
  
“Sorry, Professor,” he mutters. “I got a bit distracted by…er…er…”  
  
“Quite,” says McGonagall drily, and her eyes flick towards Whirly, then towards James Potter. “Potter,” she pounces on the boy, “as Head Boy, can’t you keep some form of order among your friends?”  
  
Potter raises his hands and pulls on his most innocent look. “Of course not, Professor. I am the perpetrator of the mayhem, after all. If I turn to the side of the law, who will take on the mantle in my place?”  
  
A twitch pulls up one side of McGonagall’s lips. “Off duty, I suppose?”  
  
Potter places a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, and absent-mindedly brushes off a couple of twigs from Whirly’s skirt. “Yes, Professor. Had my shift this morning.”  
  
 “And who is the Prefect in charge of the hall this evening?” McGonagall continues, mouth pressed into a thin line.  
  
Regulus swallows. _The moment of reckoning._ “Er – it’s me,” he says, feebly and ungrammatically.  
  
McGonagall brings her gaze to bear on him. “Well, Mr Black,” she says. “Would it be too much to ask you for once to keep an eye on the entire hall, and not merely on your own little corner? The Prefects are entrusted with maintaining the peace in this place – difficult though such a task may be – and avoiding such” – she gestures towards the fallen tree – “catastrophes.”  
  
“Sorry Professor,” he says meekly, echoing his brother, and tries to stop his knees from shaking too much. It annoys him greatly, this pitiable state of tremulousness to which he is reduced whenever McGonagall looks at him. The softness in her eyes when she looks at a student from her own House, however recalcitrant, is noticeably absent when she deals with students from other Houses. It makes Regulus feel annoyed, and unaccountably, ashamed.  
  
“As Professor Slughorn appointed you to this duty – ah, Mr Lupin!”  
  
Regulus’ breathing hitches. It his brother’s missing friend, Remus Lupin. Lupin is pink-cheeked and out of breath. Snow lies on his baubled cap and on his shoulders, and he discreetly wipes his mitted hands on his jumper.  
  
“What’s wrong, Professor? I’m just back from overseeing the cutting of the ivy.” His brow gathers into wrinkles below the sandy fringe. “There’s rather a fracas…” Lupin’s deep tones are mild and respectful, and Regulus can see the softness creeping into McGonagall’s eyes again.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus notes Potter whispering something to Sirius, who slowly edges towards Whirly. She smiles and bridles, unseen by McGonagall, who is conversing with Lupin.  
  
“No, Professor,” Lupin is saying to McGonagall. “Luckily no injuries” –  
  
“Very fortunate that the Niffler” –  
  
“…dereliction of duty…”  
  
The pink in Lupin’s cheeks deepens, staining his chin and the tip of his nose. Next to Regulus, Barty shuffles and snorts quietly. Regulus jabs his friend’s wrist with a finger, eliciting another snort.  Potter is distracted, staring at someone across the room. But Pettigrew observes Regulus and Barty, silently and intently.  
  
A vehement hissing distracts Regulus, followed by a high pitched protesting whine. A girl’s voice.  
  
“ _MISTER_ Black!”  
  
Regulus jumps, a bolt of electricity running down his spine, and turns, heart hammering…  
  
…and immediately sighs with relief when he sees McGonagall’s steely glare fixed on his brother again. Sirius whips his hand away from Whirly’s bust and stumbles backwards.  
  
Regulus steps forward at once, reaches out automatically for his brother’s shoulder, but Lupin is quicker. He catches Sirius by the elbow and hauls him up before he strikes the floor, steadying him a moment longer, and does not relinquish his grip until Sirius has stopped wobbling.  
  
Regulus lets his arms drop.  
  
McGonagall is seething, her jaw clenched and breathing short. “Mr Black, I can overlook childishness and mess, but I will not tolerate wanton groping and misconduct!”  
  
“But Professor” –  
  
She turns on Sirius a look that could melt steel. “Silence, Black. Invasion of privacy is a serious offence.” She indicates Whirly, who is red-faced and upset.  
  
“I wasn’t” –  
  
“Professor, he was looking for” –  
  
She quells both Sirius and Pettigrew with a glance. “No excuses. Detention, Black. Thursday, four o’clock.” She sweeps away, Whirly following in her wake.  
  
Sirius swings his glare around to Regulus. “Thanks for the brotherly support.”  
  
Regulus shrugs. “I did my best.”  
  
Sirius points to Barty. “What’s he doing here with you?”  
  
Regulus moves a step closer to his friend. “Keeping me company after his shift was over.”  
  
Sirius eyes the badge on Barty’s chest and arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there were two male Slytherin Prefects in your year.” He does not hide his disbelief.  
  
“You would’ve noticed that there aren’t any girls at all in Slytherin in our year if you’d paid more attention.”  
  
Sirius wrinkles his nose. “Why would I pay attention to your ear? Looks like a normal ear, all red and round. Didn’t expect to find any girls inside.”  
  
“Git!” Regulus throws a bauble at him. “My ears are not red! And that’s beside the point – you know perfectly well I meant _year_ , not ear.”  
  
“How’d I know?” Sirius says idly. “Didn’t spell it out for me, did you?”  
  
Regulus shrugs, batting away the question with a wave of his hand as of it is no more than a fly. “What were you doing with your hand down Whirly’s blouse is what I want to know. Didn’t think you had any particular interest in her.”  
  
“Nope. I was actually fishing down her front to get this.” Sirius smiles, and opens up his clenched fist to display a pendant – a tiny cross, worked in gold and set with a single diamond.  
  
“Hey, that’s mine!” Lupin plucks the cross from Sirius’ palm, runs his fingers carefully over the gold. His hand goes to the collar of his jumper, revealing a slender chain. “How did this get down her blouse?”  
  
“Maybe you dropped it down there when you were doing it with her?” Barty offers helpfully.  
  
Lupin glares. “’Course not. I didn’t do anything with anybody…I didn’t even know it was missing!”  
  
“I found it on the common room floor. Been meaning to give it back to you, and must have dropped it down Whirly’s blouse when the tree fell. Sorry, Moony.”  
  
Lupin’s brow clears at Sirius’ apology. “That explains it, then. But for heaven’s sake, Pads, do not ever do that particular stunt again!” Sirius grins, Potter claps him on the shoulder, and Lupin turns to Regulus. “Sorry about him, Regulus, he’s a bit of a nutter, but I guess you’re used to that, aren’t you?”  
  
Regulus does not like being addressed by his first name by anyone who is not a close friend, but Lupin’s chocolate eyes are warm and his tone is sincere, so Regulus decides to forgive him this once and flaps his hand in acknowledgement. “Yes, sure. He’s…er – always like that.”  
  
Sirius scowls, but there is no real menace behind it. “Why d’you come here anyway?” he asks suddenly.  
  
And then, in that instant, Regulus makes a decision.  
  
“Barty here thinks that I’m very lucky,” he says coldly. Beside him, he can feel Barty stiffen.  
  
Lupin’s and Potter’s gazes meet over Sirius’ shoulder. “Oh? Why’s that?” It is Potter who asks the question, with superbly feigned casualness. Pettigrew shuffles closer.  
  
Regulus arches an eyebrow. “Because I’m the next Black heir.”  
  
Fire flashes in Sirius’ eyes. “You seem very sure of that, Crouch.”  
  
“Aren’t you?”  
  
“I’ve not been disowned yet.”  
  
_“Yet.”_  
  
Sirius waggles an eyebrow. “I might not ever be, you know. The truth is, my dear Barty, if one is born into the House of Black, then one is born lucky.”  
  
“Yes,” Regulus adds, recognising his brother’s play, “if you’re a full-blooded Black you’re probably” –  
  
“As mad as the rest of them; going round chopping off House-elf heads, Muggle hunting” –  
  
“Like our cousin Bella” –  
  
“Or even Rodolphus” –  
  
“And if you’re the boring kind then you get lost in the disarray” –  
  
“Skulk in your dusty mansions, hide behind the tapestry” –  
  
“Ordinary stuff, like banshee-baiting, goblin wars” –  
  
“Killing off relatives you don’t like” –  
  
“Burning their names off the tree with a cigarette” –  
  
Potter, Pettigrew and Lupin are laughing. Even Barty relaxes enough to let out an amused snort. This is a game Regulus and Sirius have played since their infancy. Although the brothers have grown apart over the years, Regulus dons the mantle of eager participant effortlessly. Its familiarity is comforting.  
  
“What an encouraging brother you have, Regulus. Now I’m surprised that _you_ haven’t disowned him, your family notwithstanding.”  
  
“Ah, but with friends like these, who needs brothers?” Sirius claps a hand on Potter’s shoulder, and the other on Pettigrew’s, and nudges Lupin with his foot.  
  
Regulus gasps in mock outrage. “Is that a hint?”  
  
Sirius grins wickedly. “Might be, now. Who says you aren’t a friend? A sort of bothersome one, though,” he adds as an afterthought. “Been toddling behind me as long as I can remember. Still, quite a good friend in spite of all that.”  
  
“I’m overwhelmed at such appreciation,” Regulus shoots back. It not an untrue reply.  
  
“That’s quite enough. Be off with you now, I’ve things to do.” Sirius taps Regulus playfully on the chest, and he nudges his brother back in reply.  
  
But even as Regulus returns to his seat and resumes conversation with Barty, he can see his brother and his friends by the window at the other end. Potter’s hair is sticking up; he and Pettigrew are charming icicles on the glass panes. Lupin and Sirius are hanging a chandelier over the window; light glints off Lupin’s cross, and redness spreads over Sirius’ arm where the other boy grips it.  
  
They position the chandelier and lift the candles into the holders; up and up their hands rise, past the sill, past the icicles, past the hanging wreath of mistletoe; and into the highest places where Regulus cannot ever reach.  
  


_To be continued…_


	4. Wrath, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The variance of Remus Lupin is something that frightens and excites Sirius simultaneously; and he is not sure which the greater feeling is.

_I was angry with my friend,_

_I told my wrath, my wrath did end._

_– William Blake, A Poison Tree.  
_

Detention is a curse of no mean proportion. It has existed since the dawn of studentkind and has been a part of it; a part so integral and entwined that now, several hundred years after the founding of Hogwarts, you cannot tell one from the other. One part of this curse is idleness – long hours in classrooms, alternately stifling or freezing to death, putting up a pretence of listening to the teacher while trying not to nod off every few seconds; the other a curse of labour – polishing trophies, polishing bedpans, polishing cauldrons and chains and grime-encrusted ampules. And there is the final curse, that one truly excruciating torture – the curse of both labour and boredom melded into a single night of pure horror.

This is that night.

Or so it seems to Sirius Black, just existing the Transfiguration classroom, rubbing one reddened and aching hand. Than is nothing more laborious than writing lines (I will not thrust my hand down girls’ bosoms without their august permission) – and listening to Professor McGonagall lecture him.

Her very spectacles seemed to ooze severity as she glared at him over the rims. “Let this be the only time I have you in here for a transgression of this nature, Black.”

“Professor, I swear to you, on my honour as – as Gryffindor Quidditch captain – I’m innocent!”

“That’s what they all say, Black.” But those beady black eyes softened noticeably. “Mr Lupin told me you were only after his lost chain – but that does not excuse invading Miss Williams’ personal space.”

Sirius clenched his teeth. “She was fine with it before…”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Was she?”

“We were…we were – er – playing around…”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “Kindly do not play around by yourself with her person unless you have permission, Black.” The words were wrenched from her lips with the greatest reluctance. “In fact, try not to play around – in that fashion – at all. Stick to Quidditch, it is a most harmless pursuit.”

I do think you have learned your lesson this time,” she added, eyes lingering on his ink-stained fingers, “so off with you now.”

And so the ruffled feathers of Sirius’ temper are only slightly smoothed when he steps off the Transfiguration corridor into the courtyard. It is three days before Christmas, and the stormy weather has not let up. Rain and hail hold off, but a thick and dazzling blanket of white cover the grounds each morning. The sky is lowering and livid, the fast-piling banks of cloud illuminated around the edges of with a strange and fierce yellowish light that glints off the turrets at the top of the towers, off the Quidditch hoops on the far-off pitch, off the surface of the lake, now frozen solid, and off something small and gold on the neck of a person stumbling towards the castle with an awkward gait.

“Moony! Oy, Moony, wait up!” Unmindful of the cold, Sirius rushes behind his friend, catching him up just as he reaches the Arithmancy corridor.

Remus turns around. But it is not just Remus. Peter is there, too. They hold between them a solid and heavy oaken chest – the Gryffindor Quidditch chest – and they lay it on the floor with a thankful sigh.

“Oh there you are. Survived McGonagall, did you, slacker?”

“By the skin of my teeth. And you needn’t be displeased to see me, Moony.” Sirius is quite proud of managing to sound hurt when he is not so in the least.

Remus grins. “Indeed, I’m so sad to see you. Pete and I were looking forward to carrying this dead weight up seven flights of stairs and all the way to the dorm by ourselves, weren’t we, Pete? Doing your chores because you got landed with detention. Real treat, that.”

“What are these unseemly words, serf? Might I remind you that it’s your bounden duty to serve the son of the Most Noble and Ancient House of – ”

“– House of nutcases, yes,” Peter interrupts. “Practise finished early. MacMillan got frostbite and his nose fell off. He’s in the hospital wing now, and Prongs took Lily in to warm up.”

“Noses don’t fall off for frostbite, silly,” Sirius say, but he helps his friends move the chest into the relative warmth of the corridor.

“MacMillan’s did,” Remus tells him. “He’d been using Dinglehorn powder to ease his runny nose, but it eased his entire nose off instead, and when it froze, it just dropped off…”

Sirius wrinkles the tip of his own handsome and jaunty – if rather red – nose. “Bad luck. Or rather, what an improvement. Look, I’m sorry for missing practise –”

“And you the captain, too,” Peter interrupts solemnly.

“And I’m sorry you blokes had to haul that thing all the way up here and you don’t even play and I know I’m supposed to be responsible and –”

“Padfoot, Padfoot, calm down.” Remus is looking at him seriously, mitted hand held out in a placating gesture. “We were just joking, mate. We don’t mind, seriously” – his lips twitch at Sirius’ warning scowl – “and you’re out of humour. I know you are,” he goes on, lowering his voice slightly. “Detention doesn’t make you this anxious, usually, your Quidditch form’s been really good, and schoolwork isn’t a bother for you anyway, so it must be something else.”

Remus does not ask what it is, and Sirius is grateful.

He is not quite sure what it is himself. A number of things, probably. The steadily worsening weather – it is unusually harsh, even for Scottish winter, going home to Christmas – another age in that mad, broken house, and McGonagall being now thoroughly convinced that he was a harasser of unwitting females. Or perhaps it was the dark mood that descended upon him so frequently now; a sort of wanton restlessness, a recklessness that birthed as a spring of unease in his midriff, and spread outwards, upwards through his blood, rushing and pounding in time to his heartbeat, racing up around his lungs and squeezing his heart in a grip of iron, down his arms to his fingertips in bolts of electricity, or further still to his legs and toes, filling them with a powerful and nervous energy that made inaction impossible. The slow, lethargic days of this Christmas holiday were untenable; he wanted to move, to run, he _had_ to run, pumping his legs faster with each step, waving his arms, screaming, pounding down doors, kicking down buildings…

“Padfoot? Padfoot – mate?”

Remus is looking at him concernedly.

Sirius’ legs are trembling and his fists are clenched against his sides. “I…ah – ah sorry, mate. Drifted off there for a bit.” He loosens his fingers, relieved when the warm surge of blood rushes up immediately to warm the frozen extremities.

He casts about for a change of topic, and settles on the first thing his mind throws out. “How’s your werewolf home, Moony?”

“Padfoot, are you sure” –

“It’s fine, Pete,” Sirius interrupts quickly. “Go on, then, Moony. Any news?”

Remus’ eyes are thoughtful, still fixed on Sirius face. “There is some news as a matter of fact. Dad’s made some – er – discreet inquiries, and we’ve got two other people looking for a home. Girls this time, aged ten and seven. Newly bitten…they think it’s the same one.”

Sirius and Peter exchange glances. Sirius clears his throat. “Are these girls related to you?”

“No. They aren’t targeting my family exclusively, if that’s what you’re thinking. We thought so at first, when I first told you about it – but there’s been a spate of attacks round about Highgate, now, and an attempted one in Houlton” –

“I didn’t see anything about it in the _Prophet_ ,” Peter breaks in.

“You wouldn’t. They wouldn’t publish it. Xeno ran it in the Quibbler” –

“So everybody thought it was bollocks.”

“Exactly, Padfoot. Alastor Moody’s got a friend on the Werewolf Squad, and he put him in touch with Dad, so he went to visit the families. Most of them are adults, and they can manage; the ones who survive, at least” – the lines around Remus’ eyes deepen – “but the two girls wanted to come.”

Sirius frowns, a long-forgotten memory stirring at the back of his mind. “Alastor Moody? An Auror, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Best in the business. Retired after he went paranoid and spelled the whole of Madam Tussaud’s to attack Barty Crouch at midnight.”

“Ah, right.” Sirius remembers him now. A favourite topic with Bellatrix. Moody-hunting had been her favourite sport – after Muggle-baiting – but after a short but fierce duel in which Bellatrix had come off decidedly worse, she had given up the hunt for the time being. “When are you planning to start? Don’t you want to go home and get things ready and all?”

“Not much to do in the way of getting the house ready. We only need to reinforce the cellars, and Dad can do that easily. And then Mum and Dad will go and collect the children and come.”

“You don’t want to go with them?”

“No, Pete. Moody and the bloke from the Werewolf Squad will go with them, and Dad says I’ll be safer up here. We’ve got some news from Jack too –he’s recovering well, and he won’t be a werewolf, they say, but he won’t be parted from Davy.”

“And Davy? How – how is he?”

“He’ll live.”

“I’m sorry. No – I mean, I’m not sorry he’ll live, but I’m sorry it sounds so…bad.”

“By Jude, Pete, you sound just like Padfoot here. No need to be sorry. Aunty and Uncle are so glad he’s saved. The shock almost killed Aunty, and if Davy had died…”

Sirius sucks in a great gust of freezing air. Surely it is still better to die than to keep on living, to keep on suffering so much. Blissful oblivion, was that not the word? A merciful snuffing out of the thin thread of life, and the sheer bliss of darkness henceforth.

“The girls have been moved to Upper Slaughter after the Houlton attack, so Dad and them have to go all the way there. It was Moody’s idea, really. He wanted to board them in Bulgaria, actually, and us to take a detour via Timbuctoo, but Dad put his foot down.”

Peter stirs uneasily. “Won’t your Dad get in trouble with the Ministry if they find out?”

Remus laughs, a hollow laugh that does not go beyond the edges of the lips, does not reach the hollows of his cheeks and temples and fill them out, as it usually does. “What d’you think, Pete? But what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

But another thought has just struck Sirius. “What about medicines and all that? For wounds and all? And you know, if – if something happens during a transformation” –

“My Healer has agreed to help. We…well, we don’t use a lot of mainstream wizarding medicine you know, Padfoot. St. Mungo’s only allows two pounds worth of medicine per werewolf per month, you know.” A cloud passes across that serene countenance, and not for the first time that day, Sirius feels a quickening of his pulse, a sudden surge of the liquid power racing through his veins.

“Disgusting,” Sirius spits out. Remus and Peter both look alarmed, and take a hasty step backwards. “They’re supposed to _help_ these people, do they think they somehow stop themselves from turning into werewolves, do they think they _like_ being werewolves” –

“Maybe they don’t think that way at all.”

Sirius stares at Peter. “What do you mean? Look at Moony here – do you ever think” –

“I don’t think anything like that,” Peter says quietly and evenly. “You know I don’t. What I mean is, look at the reputation werewolves have. Even those who aren’t powerful wizards in their own right have some form of power and endurance.”

“So some people are powerful. So what?”

“ _So,_ Padfoot, these are a group of people who have both magical strength and physical endurance. There are enough of them to band together, and if they do that, they could easily take over a large number of wizarding, and even Muggle areas.”

“The…the wolfish body cannot be bent so easily to the whims of the mind, Peter,” Remus says slowly.

“But it is possible, isn’t it? People have done it – extreme discipline of the mind definitely leads to power.”

Remus’ chest heaves, and his fingers stray to the glittering cross at his neck. “Yes well, when you put it like that, it can be. The Wolfsbane trials are coming on in Andorra, but it’s hard to think anybody would want to use that for attaining power, instead of reducing suffering.”

Sirius blinks. By Merlin, he was blind. Peter is right, as he has been all along, throughout these years, in his insistence that power was attractive.

Did he himself not desire power, after all? Did he not fancy himself a puppet-master, twitching strings just a little bit, here or there, amusing himself by changing situations, causing fights, explosions, disasters, by a mere word in the wrong place, or at the wrong time? And all for fun, to feel again that heady thrill of excitement rushing down his spine – perhaps a different kind of control to the one Peter spoke of, but a form of power nevertheless.

“I think Wormtail is right. People aren’t as nice you give them credit for. You’re too naïve, Moony.”

“I’m not naïve!” Remus snaps at Sirius. His brows are drawn straight together, a line across his forehead, and his eyes are shooting sparks. “I just _know_ suffering. You see what happens to me every month. Even with all your help, I can barely get the pieces of myself together each morning in time for Madam Pomfrey to sew me back to something resembling myself. What do you think it’s like for others who don’t have this help, Sirius? What do you think it’s like for people who are bitten as young as I was, but whose families are helpless, whose pain is a hundred, thousand – no, a million times worse than my own?”

The sky is changing now; in the west, where the sun has already set. The yellowish light is growing sharper, clearer, and the still-racing banks of clouds are dipping lower over the horizon, only to turn, straighten up and head straight towards them. They converge on the castle now, over the towers, over the turrets and the courtyard, almost enveloping the solitary huddle the boys have made. Sirius thinks the clouds look like monsters, mouths open, hungry for prey.

But Remus looks far more terrifying than even these most grotesque contortions of Sirius’ imagination. The variance of Remus Lupin is something that frightens and excites Sirius simultaneously; and he is not sure which the greater feeling is.

The Remus of public knowledge is calm, mild and eternally pink-cheeked. But private Remus is much, much more – kindness, understanding, good humour, all these, yes, but also an iron resolve that ignores the borders that admiration and propriety dictate, and goes well into the realms of utter and profound stubbornness. A great deal of patience – a trait for which Sirius has been extremely grateful more times than he can count – but also a tendency to explode magnificently when that thin line is pushed.

This is one those times.

Sirius takes an involuntary step backwards, but is stopped in his tracks when a mitted hand comes up to his collar. Remus’ face is pale, the cheeks drained of blood, and the flames of wrath burn bright in his eyes.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” Remus says, and Sirius has to strain his ears to hear him, though they are standing face to face, “and the Lord knows I’ve done my best to help you understand, this is not about naivety or feelings or just being kind. I know you think I’m crazy, going ahead with this scheme” –

“I don’t think” –

“I know you do, I’ve seen the pity in your eyes. But looking out for myself isn’t enough anymore.”

“You’ve got us” –

“Yes, and I’m more grateful than I can express, but it isn’t about me. Perhaps it was, for a time, when I was very small, and newly turned, but now – now the same thing is happening to so many people, to so many children, and this ceases to be about me” –

“But Moony” –

“Stop interrupting,” Remus says coldly, and Sirius snaps his mouth shut. The grip on his collar has not slackened, and spots of warmth begin to burn high in his cheeks. “It’s about other people, now,” Remus says. “Werewolves. My people – yes, they are my people, how can they be not, when they are my brothers in suffering?”

Sirius’ mouth is dry, and it is a gargantuan effort to form words around his swollen tongue. “I thought – I thought you…” he cannot finish the sentence, but the sudden darkening of the brown eyes before his signal that Remus too, is remembering that night before the common room fire, now seemingly an eternity ago.

“Of course I hated myself, them, people, non-werewolves, everybody. Still do, sometimes _. But that doesn’t change anything, does it, Sirius?_ ”

Remus’ chest was heaving regularly now, deep breaths of frosty air being sucked into his lungs, processing and providing the energy for his passion.“It doesn’t stop the biting – only finding the rogue werewolf will do that – but these werewolf children surely need all the help and comfort, and it’s my God-given right to help them with all I can, and by Jude, I’ll not be thwarted.”

Sirius cannot tear his gaze away from the chocolate eyes before his. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he has finished forming the thoughts in his own mind, Remus speaks again: “I said, they’re my people, and _we’re going to stick together._ ”

“Survival,” Peter murmurs, so quietly that Sirius thinks he has imagined the word. But he knows he has not when Remus looks away from him – at long last – and nods at Peter.

“Yes,” Remus says, also softly. “Survival.”

And, also at long last, with that final flash of fire in Remus’ eyes, Sirius thinks he understands. Or at least, he begins to see, dimly, what Remus means. There is a streak of selfishness in his own nature, Sirius knows. He is often ashamed of it, and sometimes secretly thankful for it, but it prompts him to look after his own interests before that of others. Perhaps this is why so many of Remus’ and James’ spontaneous schemes are incomprehensible to him, and why he regards Remus’ brand of kindness, in particular, as one born from a religious sense of duty and obligation.

But perhaps this venture is not born of blind obedience, as Sirius thought it to be. His family had always encouraged communality with their own – though this inevitably bred insanity – and he understands Remus’ urge to protect his own. But maybe, Sirius thinks, shivering and turning up the collar of his knitted cloak against the wind beginning to blow, just maybe, this is not a lukewarm nod to tradition or ritual, as Sirius knows are his own overtures to his family. This grace and desire is something that comes from within Remus, births inside him, growing greater and burning brighter – just like those eyes, those bright, bright chocolate eyes – as the years pass. It is not thrust upon him or conditioned into him. Sirius does not think he can understand the whys and the wherefores, but he understands that the advent of this venture is inevitable.

 

_To be continued..._


	5. Wrath, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Sirius knows that he is mad, but this ventures into the ridiculous.

_I was angry with my foe,_

_I told did it not, my wrath did grow._

  _– William Blake, The Poison Tree._

 The silence is deafening.

Remus’ anger has abated. The change in his mood never fails to startle Sirius, for the ire vanishes as rapidly as it arrives – different indeed to James, whose anger is slow to birth and moody and broody and lasting, to Peter’s, which lasts weeks, simmering under the surface, never breaking forth except in petty grievances and sharp looks, or even to Reg’s, which is sharp and short, then trails off into exasperation and a grudging good humour.

Remus is watching him now, the colour high in his cheeks, and so is Peter, inscrutable blue eyes fixed on his face.

“I – I think I understand you,” Sirius says hesitantly. “Not fully, mind – not now and perhaps never – but I think I understand enough. You…you _have_ to do it…inside…” His mouth does not work properly, muffling and finally killing his words. He clears his throat and tries one last time.

“Survival,” he says softly, echoing the words of his friends. And when Remus gaze meets his own, above Peter’s head, lightening as it does, Sirius knows that Remus knows he knows. This understanding is something only the two of them share – and James probably will, if they tell him about it. It is not survival at all costs as Peter has interpreted it to be, but survival of a very different kind.

Remus shivers suddenly, teeth clamping together as he looks shamefacedly at Sirius. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you know…”

“Shall we head up, then?” Peter asks. “Why are we all standing here in the cold anyway?”

“Not yet,” Remus says hurriedly. “I’ve got something to show the two of you. Prongs saw it already this morning – here” – he thrusts his hand into his coat pocket and draws out a crumpled piece of parchment, blotted right across with ink.

“A list?” Sirius asks, wrinkling his forehead. The handwriting is spidery and slanted, and it is one he does not recognise.

“BOQ,” Remus says.

“Bok?” Peter asks, startled. “Like that Muggle ruglet team?”

Remus’ lips twitch. “No. Bill of Quantities, rather.”

Sirius takes the parchment from Remus, curls his stiff and rapidly blueing fingers around the paper. “Blankets, bedsheets, pillowcases…what is all this, Moony? You going in for the linen business?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, become a shopkeeper, the shining ambition of my life. This is the price list for the household items we need to stock before the children come. I sent out to The Rag-a-Bone at Hogsmeade for an estimate, and these are the essentials.”

“156 Galleons just for this lot, and second hand at that? Blimey,” Peter says quietly.

“I thought you said the house was ready,” Sirius breaks in.

“The spare rooms and beds and furniture are done. And the linen and tin cutlery are taken care of; Rag-a-Bone had all that I needed, and I had a few savings put away which sufficed for this lot. But mind you, this is only the first round, so to speak – we’ll be needing more as the full moons pass.”

“I’ll help,” Sirius says immediately. “I can…I can er” –

But what exactly, can he do? He does not even know where the linen for Grimmauld Place is supplied from – clean laundry appears each morning and the dirty laundry vanishes each night – and he does not think he can break into the linen cupboards if he could find them, for Kreacher guards his secrets too closely. Besides, he has a sinking feeling that all their eiderdowns are knitted from Niffler hair and dyed green with Purfuffle blood. Not something that small, sick children would appreciate.

“I can knit you some blankets,” he says instead.

Peter and Remus stare at him uncomprehendingly. It begins to snow, glimmering flakes drifting gently down and coming to land on their shoulders and eyelashes. The bauble on Remus cap begins to swing, and the frayed edges of Peter’s scarf flutter in the wind.

“You can knit?” Peter is disbelieving, and rightly so.

Of course Sirius knows that he is mad, but this ventures into the ridiculous. He cannot even hold a pair of knitting needles the right way up. “No, no, of course not – er, I mean…I’ll ask Mrs Potter to knit them! That’s what I mean. I’ll pay for the fur and all that.”

Remus blinks away the snow from his eyelashes. “You knit with _wool_ , Pads. Or yarn.”

“Ah, of course. Of course. I knew that. Yes, yes. I’ll pay for the wool.” Sirius is predictably hazy about household matters.

Peter’s shoulders are shaking, and Sirius shoots him a glance of mild annoyance.

Darkness has all but fallen on the castle now, but muffled footsteps echo around the corner of their corridor. The boys make to move, reluctantly heaving up the Quidditch chest, but the footsteps do not come their way. Instead there comes a clattering and scraping: the sound of chairs being drawn back in the Arithmancy classroom several feet away. Sirius moves too, towards the warmth of an alcove several feet away, and Remus and Peter follow in his wake.

“We should go back,” Remus says. “Anybody can hear us, out here.”

“Not yet,” Sirius answers, settling himself comfortably against the window sill, back pressed flat against the glass. “I really don’t want to walk in on what Prongs maybe doing with Lily at the moment.”

Peter retches. “I do agree with you there.”

Sirius casts an eye over the approaching storm clouds. “I believe,” he says softly, “that I won’t go home for Christmas after all.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “But you just said…”

Sirius shrugs. “Mother and Father are both away. They can scarcely come down all the way here and make me go back to an empty house.”

“Won’t Regulus be there? And your house elf?”

Sirius grins at Peter. “I have the feeling Regulus isn’t keen on going back there, either. Anyway, the place is confoundedly cold. More than cold, actually; it’s freezing in winter. Regulus hates it.”

“I wish I could have asked you to my place.” Remus’ voice is soft, regretful. “But I’m not going back either… too much to do, and Mum thinks she can get it all done faster without me.”

“Not one for housework, Moony?”

“Probably better than you, though, Padfoot,” Peter interrupts.

Sirius sniffs, but Remus smiles. “Dad will be away, too, so it’ll be a quiet Christmas. And – and it’s the full moon, that day.”

Silence falls. The boys usually keep track of all the full moons, but this time, with all the trouble and excitement, they have forgotten. Remus would not mind, Sirius knows, he would not expect them to remember, but regret twists like a knife in Sirius’ gut just the same.

“We’ll be there,” Sirius says. “I promise.”

Peter speaks carefully, slowly: “is your mind quite made up, Padfoot?”

“Of course it is. I’d rather eat our Hogwarts Christmas dinner than Kreacher’s merlinforsaken Cornish pixie meat pies, and sleep in my own warm bed with _real_ linen sheets than have to snuggle up with Niffler hair blankets, wouldn’t you?”

But even as he says it, even as Peter wrinkles his nose in agreement and takes a seat beside him, even as Remus hesitates, lifts his shoulder in a shrug that does not erase the doubt from his eyes and sits opposite them, he knows that it is a lie. Or at best, a half-truth. The stone walls and crimson wall-hangings of the common room and dormitory are close and stuffy. Perhaps others would not describe them so – Dumbledore himself regards them to be cheerful and comforting – but to Sirius they are an anathema. The dry, grey stone of the walls, constantly cracked, constantly crumbling, closing in on him as he lies in bed, and the red cloth wrapping him over and over like a shroud, and worst of all perhaps, the common room fires, hissing and spitting, the fingers of hellfire dancing higher and higher, burning incandescent white and orange, fires which he hates with every fibre of his being, and yet cannot ignore.

But here, in the outdoors, there is freedom. The skies and the clouds and the air meld into one; sparkling and glimmering with frost, and the endless plains of frozen grass and water and sand and snow, a waiting track for the wild energy pumping through his legs. Even here, pressed against the alcove windows, face turned sideways, he can see the grounds and the trees, boughs stripped of leaves, some bending as though whispering to the wind, others upright in token resistance, and it calms him and excites him, all at once.

Remus flicks his wand, and a faint glow descends on their little circle for an instant. Faint sounds echo up the corridor, but Sirius disregards them for the moment.

“There are a few other things,” Remus says softly, for the _Muffliato_ is an unpredictable spell at the best of times, “mostly herbs and potions ingredients.”

“What for – oh right, alternative medicines. But I thought your Healer said he’d provide them?”

“He said he’d do the healing, and he’ll give us all he can get, but these some of these herbs are really rare. Things like Mugwort and Kermanroot and Bigglerot aren’t available at your usual apothecaries.”

“You’ll just have to write to overseas apothecaries, then, won’t you? But that’ll mean extra postage costs” –

“Hang on.” Sirius suddenly leans forward. “Did you say Bigglerot?” – He runs his finger down the list quickly – “and Wedgehorn and Aloe Vera as well? I think I can get some for you. Reg is really into Potions, you know – and I’m sure he gets an owl order for a lot of those one a month. I can just snag some and he won’t even notice” –

“If you just mention you want it for Remus, Regulus will jump at the chance of giving you some,” Peter interrupts.

“Nah.” Sirius dismisses the option with a wave of his hand. “If I do that, he’ll ask what for, and then I’ll have to say that Remus is trying to cure pus boils or something and then he’ll say ‘Oh Sirius, there’s a better way of curing that, you just have to stand stark naked in a barrel full of eels’ eyes’” –

“That’s for Spattergroit, I think, Pads” –

“Then it’ll be something different like siphoning off the oil from Snape’s hair and frying it a saucepan made from Nargle tails, or rubbing Bubotubers on your nose and howling at the moon” –

The voice that comes from behind them then is soft, but unmistakeable. “Howling at the moon? Isn’t that something that werewolves do?”

 

* * *

Sirius has never been petrified. It is not a state of being he has ever wished to experience, or to enforce upon others – perhaps with the exception of Filch’s demented cat – for, by all accounts, it is a most uncomfortable ordeal.

But now he is certainly petrified.

His hands and legs are frozen, mid-wave and mid-swing, and his mouth is open – though that is often the case. He cannot move a muscle, excepting his eyes, and these make the rounds of their field of vision, crawling inch by inch, over Peter as he squeaks, jerks, and falls off the window ledge, over Remus as his cheeks drain slowly of colour and the brown of his irises darken almost to black, and over Regulus, standing not two feet behind Remus, and at his shoulder, Severus Snape and Barty Crouch.

Almost mechanically, Sirius notes that their _Muffliato_ has not worked, that Barty Crouch is wearing a lurid green jumper with crocheted blueberries on it, and that Snape is as repulsive as ever.

“Regulus,” Remus says with some difficulty.

“Are you all talking about werewolves?” Regulus asks. The inexplicable warmth that always exudes from him washes over Sirius, but his eyes are fixed on Remus, and he appears completely unware of the tension dripping thickly over them all. But he knows, Sirius knows. Regulus is more sensitive than a Muggle radar screen; every change in expression, every tiny action, however seemingly innocuous, is picked up, analysed, and stored away.

“No, no, we aren’t. Why should we?” –

“Why shouldn’t you?” Snape is the questioner now, cutting across Remus’ reply as a knife cleaves through meat. His eyes too, do not move from Remus, the black stare bubbling with malevolence. “After all, werewolves are making the headlines these days, are they not?”

“Why should that” –

“Or are you _afraid_ that someone will hear” –

“What should we be afraid of, Snivellus? People hearing us plotting to kill you? They’ll probably clap us on the back and join us.”

It is not the finest of retorts, but Sirius has achieved his aim: Snape flushes and looks away, right hand tightening perceptibly on the wand at his side.

Barty Crouch, though, is not distracted. “Why shouldn’t you?” He ventures, looking between Remus and Peter. “There’s talk that the werewolves are joining up with the Dark Lord. If that happens, folk like _you_ will surely have to watch out.”

“I can look after myself,” Peter says coldly. He does not look at Barty; instead he looks between Remus and Regulus.

Barty’s lips twitch upwards the merest fraction. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Of course you can. You know very well how to play the game, don’t you?”

“You know,” Regulus breaks in, eyebrows drawn together slightly, “I believe I’m mistaken. Werewolves don’t howl at the moon. I read somewhere – Mogorovsky’s _Canine or Vulpine_ , I think – that werewolves _bark._ Three types of bark, depending on the size of the werewolf: little ones yap and teenaged-type ones growl in tune to the wind” –

“Hahahaha hahaha hahaha ahaha” –

“ _Sirius!_ Stop! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Ahaha, I can’t help it – Reg, you’re so funny… _growling in tune to the wind_ …”

“Well, they do,” says Regulus, unperturbed. He puts his hands in his pockets, and shrugs his knitted shoulders. “And the adult ones imitate adult dogs, generally, they don’t bark until they scent their prey, then they bay to let their pack know” –

“Really, Regulus, what use is it to us to know what adult werewolves do? You are not likely to meet one for a good many years yet. You would be better off researching teenage werewolves.”

“Well, I’ve just told you, Severus” –

“Common enough behavioural patterns amongst all mongrels,” Snape barrels on. “I suggest you do more in-depth study. We are in strange company in this school after all. You never know who – or what – you would be associating with.”

Even before Snape finishes speaking, Sirius can see, out of the corner of his eyes, the colour draining from Remus’ face. A death’s head, Sirius thinks, as he watches the pallor – whiter than snow, colder than frost – spread across those fine cheek bones, siphoning dry the blood from the band of freckles spread across the nose. Is this how Remus would look, when death comes a calling, knocking on the door, as in the tale of old? Would Remus go, gladly and willingly, having grown too weary for life on this cruel earth? Or would he stand his ground, warrior-like, and fight, fight against this final injustice with all his slender strength until his very legs gave way beneath him? Or would he sit, as he sits now, in limbo, limbs rigid, neck arched; a statue carved of marble?

But there is not one iota of life left in a death’s head, and there is plenty here, in Remus’ eyes; Sirius is mired in pools of soft brown liquid when he stares into those depths, mired in fear, in horror, in the glittering quicksands of hot, bubbling panic.

No. Snape cannot know – he simply cannot, nosy parker though he is – how carefully have they guarded this stupendous secret. But if he knows – there is only one thing to do, to save Remus…

But now Snape’s eyes are alive with the strange glow of victory, the euphoria of the hunter that has trapped their prey.

And then Sirius is bubbling too, but not with panic or victory, but anger, uncoiling and unfurling like serpents in his stomach, red-hot ribbons gushing out, flushing his cheeks and neck in spite of the cold. He locks gazes with Peter, but not for long; they do not dare turn away from Remus.

Regulus has not moved his eyes from Remus. His eyebrows are drawn even lower now, the lips pushed in and teeth biting down; the whiteness of those features cannot have escaped him, and a hint as to their meaning cannot evade him for much longer.

 _Do something. Do something._ But what? Sirius has his wand. He can take on Snape, jinx him – kill him – but that would leave Peter and Remus wide open to the excellent duelling of Barty and Regulus…

But then, even as Sirius twists his wand around in his hand, Barty speaks. Perhaps he is unaware of the danger of the moment that has just passed, but likely, in Barty fashion, he has just chosen to ignore it. “None here. Dumbledore’s not such a fool.”

“Dumbledore is crazy, Barty.”

“Here, what do you think you’re implying” –

“Shut up, Pettigrew!” Barty’s lips curl at the ends, and he looks at Snape. “Dumbledore may be crazy, Sev, but he isn’t stupid.”

“I’d have to agree with Barty – and Pettigrew,” Regulus adds grudgingly. “We’d have noticed, wouldn’t we, if there were any werewolves in the school. The moon’s almost full, and the signs are unmistakeable. Trembling” –

Remus is trembling. But that could be put down to the cold…

“Constant exhaustion” –

Remus is constantly exhausted. But he hides it so well than none who do not know him intimately would know it…

“Blue circles under the eyes…”

Remus has blue circles under his eyes. Those cannot be hidden so Sirius must do something now; spell them orange? Hit his friend with a Stinging hex and swell his face so as to render it unrecognisable? Plonk him face down in the snow so his entire face turns blue?

Regulus continues smoothly. “And nobody can hide such sickness all the time, in front of the whole school. Somebody’s sure to comment on it.”

“Werewolves are brutal creatures, Regulus. They deal in secrets and subterfuge.”

Heat is spreading up Sirius’ arms now, lighting him on fire, burning him up brilliantly. There is a volcano in his heart now, simmering and pulsing beneath the surface. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Snivellus? What d’you keep hidden, grease stains on your grey underwear?”

“I do wonder what _you_ keep hidden, Black. Midnight frolics in the moonlight with your – ah – little _pet_ , perhaps?”

“Why, you!” –

Sirius has not taken half a step forward when his arm is neatly caught by Remus.

Snape is smirking. “What’s the matter, Black? Afraid thing will get a little hairy if I let the cat – pardon, dog – out of the bag?”

“I thought we settled it once and for all,” Regulus breaks in, albeit peaceably. “There aren’t any werewolves hereabouts, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t talk about them, but why we should all stand out _here_ and talk about them, Salazar only knows, and Severus, I highly discourage you from arguing with my brother, you’ll get a broken nose at best – and don’t even ask what the worst is – probably kill you, I suppose, and then they’ll cart him off to Azkaban and kill _him_ , and that would be a real pity because I’m rather fond of _both_ of you” –

“I will kill him before he kills me” –

“Yes, well, enough nonsense,” Remus says tersely. “We’ve loitered here long enough. Pete and I have got to take the chest up to the dorms” –

“Why don’t you just levitate it there, moron?”

“It’s charm-proof to stop saps like you tampering with it,” Sirius snaps at Barty. “D’you think we carried it all the way up here from the pitch just for fun?”

“Anyway, both of you” – Remus indicates Reg and Barty – “and I…we’ve got duty in less than ten minutes. I’ll drop you off at the Prefects’ room on my way.” Remus’ sandy eyebrows are forbidding, and Sirius is amused in spite himself to see the two younger Prefects fall obediently into step behind Remus and Peter.

Sirius does not move. Snape is watching the disappearing boys, face smoothed of all expression. Despite the light cloak he wears, he makes no acknowledgement of the cold. He does not look round even as he speaks to Sirius: “Mark my words, Black, you and your little pack will come a cropper one of these days.”

“Oh, you think so?”

Snape smirks. “Filthy creatures, werewolves. Base. Carnal. Call it what you will. You can’t tame them, Black, try as you might.”

“Why don’t you try something and keep your greasy mouth” –

Snape’s smirk grows wider. “What’s the matter, Black, can’t handle the truth? Somebody will figure out your dirty little secret one of these days, and you won’t have seen it coming a mile away. But then, you Gryffindors are an extraordinarily short sighted lot, aren’t you?”

Snape glances idly down at his yellowing fingernails, and then lifts his right shoulder in a shrug. “Or maybe it isn’t the Gryffindors, but your family specifically.” Those lips pull back in a sardonic grin. “Take your brother, for instance. Now he’s got plenty of clues for solving your little conundrum, but attraction blinds him.”

Sirius curls his hands into fists. He is trembling too, but not from cold. No, this is anger – the caldera in his heart is boiling now, boiling far beyond the confined limits of his flesh and blood, molten lava spilling out, gushing out in torrents, flooding him, and inundating him beneath the tides and swells of fury. “My brother, Snivellus, is none of your concern. Neither are myself, nor any of my friends.”

Snape raises an unconcerned eyebrow, but Sirius can see the glint of that strange euphoria expanding a thousand fold. “Your brother is my concern, actually, since I happen to be – _somewhat_ – fond of him. A nice boy, though too soft hearted and gullible. Thinks that werewolves are _people_ …nice and friendly like _dogs_ …babies yapping and teenagers _growling with music…_ but werewolves aren’t people, are they, Black? They’re _creatures,_ stunted and evil, mindless and soulless” –

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP YOU” –

Sirius’ arm is rising, his wand pointed at Snape’s chest, _Avada Kedavra_ on his lips, but his hand is shaking, shaking far too much…

But Snape does not stir, and Sirius knows he cares not that death is minutes, perhaps just seconds away. Oh no, for Snape is alive, too full of life, an insane happiness filling those black eyes.

“You should tell your baby brother these things, Black. Make sure you look after him better, eh? Do your brotherly duty with a maximum of grace. Just like you look after your furry little friend. How _do_ you take care of him, anyway – snap on a collar and lead and take him for walks at the full moon? Scratch his head and give him a treat and tell him he’s a good boy?”

And then, Sirius knows this is it.

The final snapping of the frail silk-spun thread that binds him to sanity. It breaks, quietly and cleanly, swept away by the deluge of the volcano that breaks over him now, bursts through the walls and dams that he has erected within him; it breaks once, and then again and again it strikes at him, gigantic, towering tsunamis of fury, destroying his thoughts, his defences, his mind and his soul.

But this is not he. It cannot be he.

Surely, these are not his fingers but claws of iron that fasten upon the collar of Snape’s cloak, these are not his eyes but pools of fire that stare into Snape’s horror-stricken gaze, and surely, surely, these are not his lips that speak these words, but an echo of all the sadness and madness in the world:

“Come along to the Whomping Willow on Christmas night, and you can see _exactly_ how I look after my friends.”

And then he turns, and leaves, leaving behind Snape and a curious mixture of terror and victory. He does not know, and he does not care. For the tides have not turned after the initial rush; they continue to swell and flow and swell and flow, sweeping him off a cliff he knew not existed, toppling him, inch by inch, over the screaming edge of madness.

 

_To be continued…_


	6. Not Quite Patron Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who do you think you are, Regulus? The Patron Saint of Ill-Timed Interruptions?”

_Make no friendship with a man given to anger, nor go with a wrathful man, lest you learn his ways and entangle yourself in a snare._

\- _Proverbs 22:24-25_

 

It is Christmas Eve of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Regulus Black is most abominably cold.

This a tremendous puzzlement, and not least to himself, because Regulus is actually supposed to be a font of _warmth._ Eternally ruddy-cheeked, with the tip of his nose, toes and fingertips a most heart-warming pink, and wrapped in heaps of jumpers and scarves – green of course, as befits an exemplary member of Slytherin house – Regulus is an unceasing, constantly bubbling source of the most comforting bodily heat.

Which is why he is both astonished and disgusted at feeling so constantly, wretchedly cold.

Hardly anybody believes him. Not his friends, and certainly not Barty and Evan, who at this moment are trying to turf him out of his most comfortable armchair before the fire in one of the unused classrooms on a ground floor corridor.

“Put a sock in it,” Regulus snaps at Evan.

Evan raises a blond eyebrow, and does not slacken his grip upon Regulus’ left arm the least bit. “That’s my chair by right of seniority,” he calmly informs Regulus.

“Seniority bollocks. Severus is five months older than you, and I don’t see _him_ trying to take over my seat.”

Barty gives out a loud and disbelieving snort. The disbelieving snort is his particular speciality, and he has been practising hard all week. He digs his fingers a little harder into Regulus’ right shoulder. “You’ve been sitting pretty there for the past thirty minutes. Get up and give me the damn chair.”

Regulus grinds his teeth. His arms are beginning to hurt, and with the exertion of just a tad more force, Barty will surely succeed in pulling his arm right out of its socket. “No. First come first served, remember, so it’s definitely my chair. _Anyway_ , I’m cold, and I’m not moving away from this spot for anything.”

“You can’t be cold,” Barty objects. “Your arm is burning like a ruddy furnace. I can feel it through the wool!”

Regulus scowls, mouth open to argue, then closes it and shrugs his shoulders as best he can despite Evan’s and Barty’s firm holds, and sighs. He has lost count of the times he has tried to make his friends understand his point, and he knows that trying yet again will not yield happy results for him.

It is a sad and cruel twist of fate, Regulus reflects miserably, for the second son of the esteemed Blacks to be a perpetually cold person.

“You can share the chair with me,” Regulus says consolingly to Barty, and moves exactly three and three quarter inches over to the left. “Here you are, plenty of room for your svelte and youthful figure.”

Barty throws up his arms in disgust.

Regulus chuckles.

“Take a leaf out of Sev’s book, and find yourself a good cushion,” Regulus continues. “You too, Evan. I mean, look at Sev – none of this your-chair-my-chair business. A nice plump bit of padding, and bright red too. What’s with the crimson, Severus? Feeling nice and cheerful, lately?”

Evan chuckles too this time, and releases his iron grip on Regulus’ arm in favour of dragging over a green cushion and plumping it down next to Severus’. “No, no, Regulus,” he reproves gently. “Not crimson. Red is the word. A nice deep, flame red” –

“Red, the colour of her hair” –

“Black, the name of the snooty brother-in-law” –

“Shut up, Evan!”

“Oh, did little Reggie feel angry?” Evan waggles his eyebrows. “How do you know that I was talking about you in the first place? Could have been about that degenerate Gryffindor brother of yours – or even that nest-headed Potter boy” –

“Do take Regulus’ advice, Evan, and shut up,” Severus cuts in smoothly.

Regulus turns his head so fast to look at Severus that he develops a very painful crick in his neck. He brings his hand up to rub it, and very slowly, inch by inch, turns his eyes downward to look at Severus. It not unusual that Severus has chosen to be silent until now. He rarely speaks, unless he has something of substance to add to a conversation.

“Are you all right, Severus?” Regulus asks tentatively.

“If tolerating Evan’s inane and insane prattle is classed as ‘all right’, then, yes.”

On first glance, Severus does look all right. He is seated in his usual neat fashion, legs folded beneath the eternal black robes arranged in a rippling pool on the flagstones, and a battered Potions textbook tucked snugly in the gap between collarbone and left arm. But all is not well. Of this, Regulus is certain. There is a light in Severus’ eyes that has only settled there lately; an unearthly, predatory gleam that sends shivers down Regulus’ spine whenever he stares into those black depths, a viscous, bubbling mix of malice and euphoria.

Could Regulus be imagining it? But no, he could not. Severus Snape is a closed book even to his nearest friends, and blank, impenetrable shutters guard the thoughts of those dark eyes carefully. The display of even a flicker of emotion, to let loose even the slimmest stream of joy or sadness or guilt, surely meant there was a whirlwind of emotion behind that carefully sculpted façade.

Regulus does not inquire about the matter outright, for Severus will surely rebuff all direct advances. Perhaps Evan had not noticed, and perhaps he has, and does not care, for he makes no move to ask Severus anything either. Barty has noticed, for the sudden flicker in those blue eyes can mean nothing else, but he ignores it too.

Instead, Barty turfs a third-year out of a neighbouring armchair with admirable casualness, and drags it with a mighty scraping along the floor, to rest it leg-to-leg against Regulus’ own chair. “You’ve no call to talk about redheads,” he tells Evan. “Your own Deirdre is as ginger as…as…ginger beer.”

Ginger beer is most definitely not red, and Regulus opens his mouth to let Barty know, but Evan beats him to it.

“Ginger beer is as yellow as a bumblebee’s bum, and I can talk” –

“But Evan, a bumblebee’s bum is black, not” –

“Shut up, Regulus,” Evan says coldly.

Regulus shuts up.

Evan turns back to Barty. “I can talk all I like about redheads because Deirdre, unlike that Evans bint, is a pureblood.”

The ensuing silence is as cold as the snow outside and as sharp as ice, keenly slicing through the layers of knitted clothing upon Regulus. The rebuke brings sudden heat to Barty’s cheeks, two bright red, burning patches on either side of his nose, and also to Severus’ face, where the pink mottles with a sallow pallor and turns his flesh a curious and unsightly grey.

Severus turns his gaze to meet Evan’s now, brushing clumping strands of black hair from his brow.

“I don’t mean any unkindness,” Evan continues, “but really, Severus, this is your last year at school. Don’t you think it’s time to let go of these silly little schoolboy crushes?”

“Don’t you think it is time you learned to mind your own business?” Severus does not drop his gaze from Evan; his voice is void of all expression.

“No, I damn well don’t!” Evan says, and his tone has a frosty inflection that puts the sleet outside to shame. “I thought you wanted to great things, Severus. Opportunities in this piss-poor school are so limited, I can understand you getting side-tracked now and again, but what happens when we leave school? Are you still going to continue this sordid and hopeless mooning even then?”

“And what if I do?”

“Do you really want to lose your chance at greatness, Severus?” The blue of Evan’s eyes is as chilly as his voice, but this is an oxymoron, for his skin burns with a fire that renders his cheeks a brilliant crimson, and this makes even Regulus seem cold by comparison. He leans forward, matches Severus breath for breath. “It’s all out there for us, Severus. That’s why we’re here today” – he indicates the chattering groups around them with a wave of his hand; they continue to natter on, oblivious of the boys’ conversation – “so much power and knowledge…the Dark Lord wants us, Severus. _Us._ Can you imagine it?”

Severus notwithstanding, Regulus can imagine it very well indeed.

He just prefers not to.

But sometimes, at night, with the curtains drawn close around his four-poster bed and his face buried fathoms deep in his pillow, the images of an eternity in servitude creep up on him unawares. They are strange pictures, equal parts fascinating and terrifying, for what Evan says is true. Along that path – his true path, as Mother so often says – lie the keys to those most precious doors of all: knowledge and security and a world in which he truly belongs. Knowledge is exciting; it is his ambrosia, and security in the precarious world of magical politics is elusive, and he certainly would not deny himself the chance to gain it permanently.

It is the very point of security that makes it also terrifying. Security as a member of the Dark Lord’s nearest is not gained lightly: the margin of error is impossibly small. In fact, it is so small as to be negligible. The Dark Lord tolerates neither mistakes nor anarchy in his subordinates.

_A lifetime of service or death._

And he; stumbling, bumbling Regulus with his love of unconventional wisdom and a desire for peace and quiet: can he make good in this world of outward glamour and glory, and inward tripwires and death traps?

His cousin Bellatrix does not see this as a matter of concern. “Nonsense, Reggie, you’re a talented wizard,” she’d say over and over again at the family dinner table, tucking into Cornish pixie meat pies with great gusto as she spoke, “you should be honoured to serve our glorious Lord!”

“You should be absolute nuts to serve that bastard,” Sirius would mutter at his elbow, and Regulus, heat rising in his cheeks, eyes turned resolutely from his mother’s hopeful gaze and the shimmer in his cousin’s eyes, would silently agree.

Now that he thinks of it, Evan sounds disturbingly like Bellatrix.

“I say, Evan,” he says, and hopes this will interrupt Evan’s death glare on Severus, “Evan, you sound like Bellatrix.”

Evan’s right shoulder lifts fractionally in a half-shrug. “Is that such a bad thing? She is my cousin, after all.”

 _Merlin._ Evan is right – Regulus has completely forgotten that Evan’s father and Aunt Druella are brother and sister. But Father and Uncle Cygnus are also brothers, so does that mean he, Regulus, also sounds like Bellatrix on occasion?

_Perish the thought._

Regulus shudders involuntarily, then brightens. If he did sound remotely like Bellatrix at all, Sirius would certainly have killed him. Since he is most definitely alive, that surely means he does not resemble Bellatrix.

“Regulus?”

Regulus shakes his head violently, turns to Barty, who is looking at him with a bemused expression. “Kneazle got your tongue, mate?”

“Sorry,” Regulus murmurs, “just wool-gathering.” His eyes flick upwards, holds Barty’s gaze for an infinitesimal moment. Evan and Severus have not heard their conversation; they are still glaring daggers at each other, fists locked like curved iron at their sides, eyes resembling molten steel, if steel could freeze in the heat of the flames, and shoot sparks, blue and black.

This confrontation has been a long time in the making. Evan and Severus are best friends, much like Regulus and Barty. But unlike Barty, who tolerates – and perhaps even encourages – Regulus’ many vagaries with a good-natured shake of straw blond locks and a half-hearted acidic quip or two, Evan is far more outspoken about Severus’ less than stellar interests.

Evan, to his credit, brings up the topic very rarely, and Severus, to his even greater credit, holds both his tongue and his peace on these occasions, so avoiding a conflagration. Regulus knows that Severus values his friendship with Evan – and that he also values his friendship with Lily Evans. The girl is both intelligent and warm hearted; Severus cannot be blamed for liking her. Barty does not care either way; but he says a peaceful atmosphere is more conducive to practising the art of snorting effectively, so he tries, as much as he can with witty remarks and downright threats, to smooth over the rough patches.

It works most of the time.

But beneath the surface of their seemingly easy friendship, there runs an undercurrent. It is the same sharp, slightly sour thrill of headiness that hangs upon Sirius sometimes, and clings like a limpet to the gloomy walls and stairways of Grimmauld Place. Regulus has brought up breathing it, living it, drowning in it, and because of this very fact, he would rather it was absent.

He cannot break it or make it vanish – after all, when water evaporates from the oceans and lakes, does it not fall down as rain somewhere else? All he can do is hope to diffuse the tension with a word or observation, and so, he tries his best.

“I say, Evan,” Regulus says again – this is his usual form of address to Evan – “the speech is about to begin; don’t you think both of you should just shut” –

Evan whips his head around and grimaces. “Who do you think you are, Regulus? The Patron Saint of Ill-Timed Interruptions?”

“No, I just told you to talk” –

“Or the Patron Saint of Senseless Contradictions?”

Regulus blinks. Evan can be exceedingly rude on occasion. But luckily, his own powers of recovery are speedy. “And who do you think you are?” Regulus demands belligerently, “the Patron Saint of Cutting People Off in Mid-Sentence Extremely Rudely?”

“Too long,” Barty breaks in, with a nudge to Regulus’ ribs for good measure. “Patron Saint of Pig-headedness would serve him better.”

Evan grunts and unclenches his fingers, his glare finally fading.

Severus smirks, and crosses his legs more securely beneath the pooling black robes. “If you three Patron Saints of Absolute and Utter Stupidity have quite finished arguing, you might realise that our honoured speaker is about to begin his lecture.”

 

_To be continued..._


	7. Still Not Patron Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus’ breath hitches. “Is that a threat, Severus?”

_“I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”_

_― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice._

 

The honoured speaker is only Abram Yaxley, a seventh-year. He makes up for his lack of years with effusive gestures and pomposity to spare, though Regulus thinks something is still lacking in his overall image. After all, when one has practically swept the floor with one’s palm in illustration of some subtle argument for blood purity for the third time, the audience will certainly get bored.

But Regulus cannot deny that Abram is possessed of a very fine pair of brown eyes.

Piercing, in fact.

Neither can he deny the pleasing effect those brown eyes in that prepossessing face have on him.

Then he sniffs.

Now, where has he heard that particular phrase before?

His brow gathers into wrinkles. Possibly his brother, in pursuit of Whirly, or another unfortunate Ravenclaw. No – Sirius does not go for the eyes, as he proved for the thousandth time that day they were decorating the Great Hall. But he is sure it is something to do with his brother. Did he read it in a book, then? In the library, where they occasionally run across each other, Regulus indulging himself in the Potions and Dark Arts section, while Sirius accompanied his friends to the fiction shelves, and someone – usually Lupin –

_Lupin! That is it._

Lupin had read aloud from a book; giving some advice to Potter about getting on with Evans, no doubt – poor Severus would have no chance, not with thoughtful Lupin supervising Potter’s dating activities – about the effect of fine eyes in pretty faces.

What was the book again? _Pride and Perjury…_

No.

_Bride and Breadfruit Juice?_

Funny name for a romance, though these Muggle books had the oddest titles. If Bellatrix knew about his penchant for Muggle novels… he shivers again, the crawling unease inevitably settling in his stomach whenever he thinks of Bellatrix.

But no. He must not think of Bellatrix. Let him think instead about fine eyes – fine brown eyes, like Yaxley’s – or – or – Lupin’s…

Regulus’ spine begins to feel pleasantly warm, a slight prickling making its way up his back beneath the wool of his jersey.  Would his own eyes be considered “fine”, too? Admittedly grey, and not that pleasing shade of melting chocolate, but still –

“Regulus!”

Perhaps it would help if he smeared his cloak six inches deep in the mud –

“Regulus! Your jumper is on fire, you idiot!”

Regulus yelps and jerks around, a stream of electrical impulses setting alight the nerves in his neck.

Barty is staring at him in horror, already reaching for his wrists to help him slip the garment over his head. His jumper is smoking, the ends of the wool unravelling and curled, a thin tapering flame travelling rapidly up the ribbed stitches. Scrambling to get a grip on the cloth, avoiding the flame all the while, Regulus tugs the jumper upwards.

His head gets stuck in the neck hole.

“Get it _off_ , you idiot!” Barty hisses, desperately pulling at Regulus’ arms and shoulders. “Your hair is going to burn!”

The sore spots inflicted on his arms by Barty and Evan earlier in the evening begin to ache with a vengeance. “I can’t breathe,” Regulus tries to tell his friend, but the words are muffled by the scarf pressing against his tongue.

“Pull!” Barty yanks harder, and with a ripping of fabric that echoes three times as loud in his ears, the jumper jerks itself free of his head. Snatching it up, Regulus immediately douses the tiny tongue of flame just beginning to lick at the ends of his hair.

“I – is it gone? Completely?”

Barty tugs the jersey away from Regulus’ hair. “I think so,” he says. “But your hair is a mess.”

“Never mind the hair.” His chest is hurting, his heart jumping erratically against his ribs. His left hand sneaks up involuntarily to his breast, the other clenches like a vice around the back of his chair. Spots begin to dance on the horizons of his vision.

A shadow looms over them. “Have you quite finished here?” A stertorous voice enquires.

Regulus flicks his eyes upward. The spots fade as he does so. Barty’s hand slips from his shoulder, the ruined jumper disengaging itself from his fingers and landing on the floor. Abram Yaxley is hovering over them, a solid half a foot above Regulus, and almost as much above Barty.

“When you’ve _quite_ finished,” Yaxley says, “we would be most grateful if you would find your seats, gentlemen. If not” – and here he pauses, locking gazes with Regulus, the top of his lips curling upwards the tiniest fraction in an almost imperceptible sneer, “the door is that way.”

His lungs are still searing, still short of oxygen, his heart pounding against his ribcage so hard he thinks – he knows – it will shatter, but still, he lifts his eyes to Yaxley’s.

“I’m fine,” he says stiffly.

Yaxley raises an eyebrow. “Quite a performance for such a simple statement.”

Regulus scowls. He is still panting rather hard, but at least he can stand upright now. “Sorry to interrupt your little party, but being on fire is a rather serious concern.”

“Yeah,” come Barty’s plaintive tones to his left, “how like your brother to play around with fire.”

“I said _serious_ , not _Sirius._ Fool.”

Yaxley eyes the two of them uncomprehendingly for a moment, then sticks his nose in the air. “Next time, I _will_ boot you out, fire or not.”

Regulus mutters a curse and shoots Yaxley a death glare. And now that he observes them closely, Yaxley’s eyes are not warm and melting at all. Instead, they most resemble mud.

Nasty, marshy, squelchy mud.

_Yuck._

Yaxley stalks away, and Regulus turns around to reclaim his seat.

But Evan is already sitting in it, burrowed halfway down, legs crossed snugly beneath him.

“Idiot! That’s my chair!”

Evan’s face is nearly split in two by his grin. “No, I ain’t. And not anymore, it isn’t.”

For a fleeting moment, Regulus considers upending the chair with Evan still in it, but his chest and arms are aching too much to do it. Besides, courtesy – something he has managed to avoid so far this evening – dictates that the seat must be given up to his elders, so Regulus surrenders with as much grace as he can muster.

Which is not much at all.

Evan’s cheek is still scarlet, and smarting from the slap that Regulus has just administered when Regulus sinks down onto Evan’s abandoned cushion next to Severus.

Severus tilts his head and smirks at Regulus.

“Thanks for your help, Severus,” Regulus tells him as acidly as he can in his still-breathless state.

“You were managing very well by yourself. Particularly for a wizard who is trained to use magic to diffuse situations such as these.”

_Salazar’s balls._ “I was burning, Severus! Who has the time to be rummaging around for wands when their tail is on fire?”

This brilliant argument apparently fails to convince Severus; he only raises an eyebrow in reply. “And where, pray, do you keep your wand?”

“In my back pocket, of course. Where do you keep yours?”

“You shouldn’t keep it there,” Barty breaks in, and nudges Regulus’ collar with his toe. “Lots of accidents can happen. Dad told me that Alastor Moody blew his own buttock off last week.”

A fate too terrible to behold. “Maybe I should keep it in my front pocket, then.”

Severus smiles this time, a genuine grin touched with his trademark sarcasm. “Not unless you want to lose something much more valuable than a buttock, Regulus.”

“Who are you? The Patron Saint of Protecting Buttocks?”

“I am merely looking out for your welfare, Regulus.”

“What I want to know,” Evan says, “is why you didn’t feel anything when your jumper caught fire.”

“I did,” Regulus admits grudgingly, “but I thought it was – er, something else.”

Gradually, the attention has shifted away from their little group. Yaxley is continuing his speech; he is a magnetic speaker, and the glittering golden diagrams of human figures he has conjured up in mid-air further secure his audience’s attention. The blizzard has not let up this past week; momentary lulls when the sky lightens from black to dark blue, and the snow slows to drop in rivulets, rather than in torrential gushing waterfalls are but fleeting interludes, no more than passing shadows over the face of the moon. Scots winters are harsh, Regulus knows, even harder than those spent on the wild and savagely beautiful coast of Cornwall, where the Blacks have their holiday home, but he cannot recall a winter as tough to endure as this, one as fraught with near-invisible undercurrents of tension, or a bleaker lead up to Christmas.

Dark forces at work. Regulus is accustomed to all kinds of darkness, but there is something in the changing dynamics among his friends, among the rest of the student body at Hogwarts and his social circle at home – nothing of substance, but whispers and rumours and glances that drive home the knife of doubt into a stuttering conscience more acutely than concrete facts ever could – that fill Regulus with foreboding.

He would rather not be here, but attendance is a matter of blood etiquette. Evan and Severus are already confirmed followers, both bearing the Mark beneath judiciously lengthened shirt sleeves. But this is Yaxley’s night to shine, this recruitment drive is his brainchild, and nobody can deny that his enthusiasm and commitment are commendable. Evan and Severus are content to let him lead this once, for both their talents lie in different directions: Evan’s on the battlefield, and Severus’ in the Potions lab. Regulus himself has nothing more to do than endeavour to look interested and peruse the propaganda leaflets handed out to them.

“These are dumb,” Barty says, brushing off a speck of dust lovingly from one of the bright purple blueberries on his jumper with one hand, and tapping a leaflet with the other. He adds in a snort for good measure. “Wizards have longer life spans than Muggles because we’re more “worthy” somehow… we’re the rightful heirs to all the gold and ore and natural resources Britain has to offer… and we have superior gene pools” –

“That’s odd,” Regulus says, “I thought Muggles invented jeans. And they don’t store them in pools, do they?”

“Genes with a _G_ ,” Severus says abruptly. “A Muggle biological concept.”

Evan idly inspects his hands, apparently fascinated by a strawberry mark on his right index finger. “You don’t think there is a modicum of truth to those statements, then?”

Barty snorts again. “Nah. Not really. I mean, we are a tiny community… there are many more of them than there are of us” –

“That’s true,” Regulus chimes in softly, “and if there were to be any – er, Muggle uprisings” –

“We’d be in the soup pretty fast, eh?”

Silence follows. Not the awkward, charged silence after Evan’s earlier outburst, but a thoughtful silence, an introspective pause as the boys turn over the discussion in their minds. The spell is broken by Severus, who moves a fraction of an inch closer to Regulus, an almost unnoticeable movement that nevertheless brings his cloak to touch against Regulus’ trousers, their knees meeting despite the fabric barrier. “Oh, you may be right enough,” Severus says quietly, so faintly Regulus has to lean forward to catch the words, despite their proximity, “but I think danger is imminent from quarters much closer to home.”

 

* * *

  **  
**

“What – what do you mean?”

Severus smiles for the third time in half an hour – a rare feat in itself – but this time, the smile is not touched by any form of grudging good humour. “I’m surprised, Regulus. Didn’t your brother teach you any of these things? You spend much time in his company at home, do you not? Surely he must have discussed it with you.”

“We’re two completely different individuals, Severus. We aren’t attached at the hip, or anything.”

“What a pity. Unsatisfactory though he maybe in many respects, perhaps just for once it would have been better for you if you were.” Severus’ gentle disapproval is almost tangible, and it leaves a sour after taste in Regulus’ mouth.

“For Salazar’s sake, don’t speak in riddles. Leave that to Barty. Say what you mean, straight out!”

“I’ve broached the subject with you before, though.” Severus waves an airy hand, then brings it down to his feet and tucks a stray fold of robe back beneath his legs. The movement is delicate, harmonious; a caress, almost. “Take Hogwarts, for example. We have been here for six or seven years. But how much do we really know about the students, the teachers, the people we spend time with?”

Suddenly, Regulus knees are hurting. He unfurls them, stretching out the kinks, and tucks them up again, this time curling the left ankle over the right. “We know them well enough, I think. They haven’t done us any harm, have they?” _I know what you’re implying. You think I don’t, but I do._

“There are things out here that could hurt you, Regulus.”

“Forgive me for doubting your words, Severus, but I think I’d get at least an inkling of the danger heading my way.”

“You’re still sixteen,” Severus says quietly. “You’re young and hopeful… maybe it is understandable that you want to think that way.”

“Dumbledore is the greatest wizard that ever lived – you think he doesn’t know exactly who he’s taking into the school?”

“He does not seem to be aware of these little meetings we’re having,” Severus points out.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Regulus mutters, and shoots a surreptitious glance at Barty and Evan. But they have lost all interest in this conversation – Evan does not like riddles, and Barty does not like them either unless he is the one making them – and have started their own argument about jeans, and where exactly gold can be found on the Isle of Wight.

“Why didn’t you want to go home for Christmas?”

The change is subject is abrupt, and should have given Severus the upper hand with the element of surprise, but Regulus is well used to Severus’ vagaries, and adjusts to this new challenge speedily. “Kreacher deserves a little peace and quiet, don’t you think?”

Severus’ blank stare indicates very clearly that he does not think so in the least.

“Honestly, Severus, what do you expect me to do; go back to an empty house and throw a party, all by my little ownsome? I don’t know when Mother and Father will be back from the Riviera – if they come back at all before spring, that is – and who wants to spend Christmas at Uncle Cygnus’ anyway, with Bellatrix breathing down your neck all the time?”

“Bellatrix has… useful… connections. I would not hesitate to cultivate her company if I was you.”

“Ah, but I am – most assuredly – not you.”

Severus looks at him a long while through half-closed lids, but the hungry glimmer that had been present in the black depths all night only increases. “Many greater men than I would kill for half the advantages you possess, Regulus. You are lucky man – it would behove you to appreciate it this once.”

But Regulus is not sure he wants to, anymore.

The daily mantra of reminding himself how lucky he is might have worked satisfactorily for a time, but now, here on this lowly cushion with Severus mercilessly invading his personal space, the fire sputtering and sparking and doing nothing to stop the excruciating cold that insists on sweeping into his skin despite his jumpers and scarves, the snow, blindingly white against livid black skies, here, just in this moment, it is not enough.

There is a tiredness in his bones that increases a little more every day, a stutter in his heart that makes it pump a little faster with every mild shock or scare or worry that plagues him, and a weariness – a great undulating mass, a filthy grey behemoth that refuses to budge from his head and shoulders however much Regulus tries to lift it off.

He could try to explain all this to Severus, he supposes, but Severus will not – cannot – understand.

“I’m tired,” he tells Severus instead, and tries not to think of all that lies behind those two simple words.

“So are we all,” is Severus’ unexpected reply.

Regulus tries to raise one eyebrow, and succeeds in raising one and a half. “Are you?”

“We all are, in one way or another” – and opening wide the shutters in front of those black eyes, he makes Regulus privy to each pulsing thread of excitement that runs across them – “but the only way to alleviate that is to keep on going, to keep on reaching for more.”

“You sounded a bit like Evan, there,” Regulus says, then lifts his left hand in a placating gesture when Severus bristles. “Are you doing it, though? Do you keep on going? Are you reaching for more?”

A pause follows Regulus’ question, and Severus stretches it out as far as it can go, ten, twenty seconds melting into an agonising minute, and then even longer, face carefully turned from Regulus, eyes following the swirling snowflakes outside.

A lull that lasts so long the bubbling pits of anxiety in Regulus’ stomach begin to churn.

Has he overstepped his boundaries, has he forced Severus’ confidence where his inquiries are not wanted?

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and lightly places his palm on Severus’ shoulder. “I shouldn’t have asked – I… I had no right” –

“I do not mind,” Severus says, and when he turns to meet Regulus’ gaze, those mercurial dark eyes are calm again. Not a genuine stillness, but a forced one, a calmness acquired by the harsh clamping down of iron fists of self-control. “Why do you think I joined up to serve the Dark Lord, Regulus?”

“I thought… maybe” –

But really, what did he think? Now that he is forced to examine the question, Regulus can see that his first guess why Severus became a Death Eater falls flat. Severus does not believe in the superiority of blood purity – and that means that Lord Voldemort does not either, because if he did, he would not have allowed a Halfblood to join his ranks at all – so Severus must seek something else… something form of satisfaction he can glean from no other source.

“Are you contracted to invent new potions for Lord Voldemort? Is that it?”

 “Good guess. But not the right one.” But even as he negates Regulus’ answer, the corners of his lips twitch fractionally, and Regulus knows his answer is not as wrong as Severus lets on. But what else can Severus want?

Evan wants excitement and position and better duelling opponents. Regulus would like a guarantee of security and a life of relative smoothness and quiet. Mother would like him to have considerable power and wealth and prestige as one of the Dark Lord’s most important followers. Sirius wants nothing to do with the entire setup. And Barty just wants a world in which he can snort in peace – though he is unlikely to get this, as the Lord Voldemort is notoriously anti-snort, according to Evan, and Evan ought to know.

So perhaps Severus is not very different to them, after all.

Regulus inches forward on the cushion in his turn, lodging his knees more securely against the fall of Severus’ robes. “Security… that’s it, isn’t it, Severus? That’s what you want from the Dark Lord?”

Severus’ glance lingers on Regulus’ knees for a tiny moment, and then, he bows his head. “Yes. You are right – in a way. That is what I require…”

“That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? When you get right down to it. Oh look at them,” Regulus adds, and waves his hand at the crowds in the room. They are mostly boys, with only a smattering of girls. The older ones – fourth-years and up – look serious and eager, studying the diagrams and charts hung in mid-air. The younger ones look eager too, their eyes following Yaxley as he paces the aisles, pausing, stooping now and then to field a question from the first-years, or smile engagingly as he illustrates a point for the second-years. “They want security and excitement as well as we do, I suppose… mainly an assurance of safety, if the world as we know it falls apart.”

He continues to watch them, eyes crinkling slightly when a little first-year with a mop of floppy blond hair leans forward when Yaxley passes by, and catches the train of his cloak, carding the heavy wool as gently as any silk through his fingers. And then, as the boy lifts his face once more, the glimmer of the blue eyes, the glow of heightening excitement in those cheeks – just a second more, and he can even feel the quickening of the heartbeat, as well and familiarly as though it was his own.

_Hero worship._

Oh, he knows well the anatomy of that half-shameful, thrilling, all-encompassing emotion.

Less an emotion than a state of being, Regulus supposes. One which he has been wallowing in all his life. His earliest memories; learning to walk, tottering around on baby feet, clutching in one fat fist the back of a romper-suit only one size bigger than his own; later, sneaking downstairs for mince pies and milk while Kreacher slept, following the other bobbing black head throughout the silent house, stifling his giggles and trying not to trip; and most recently, the fountain spring of shock and amusement and apprehension and longing he felt when the tomobike was wheeled into their front parlour, leaving a dripping trail of petrol, as pretty as you please.

And of course, people generally like being admired, and so, in return for the subtle form of hero worship that he offered, came the promise of safety and good favour.

“It’s a bit of self-preservation, isn’t it?” Regulus tells Severus smilingly. “Sucking up to Yaxley like that – and er, the other senior er” –

“Quite,” Severus says drily. “You do not think the young ones are genuinely fond of him, then?”

“Of course they are,” Regulus acknowledges. “You have to admit, he has got charisma.”

Barty snorts, suddenly and violently, and turns around to look at Regulus. “Charisma? Is that what you call it?”

Involuntarily, Regulus’ brow is drawn down in a scowl. “Were you eavesdropping, Barty?”

“Hardly. But that word did command my attention.”

“Well, if you disagree, what would you call it?”

“Sexy peel, neither more nor less.”

Regulus blinks. He has seen and heard many weird and not quite wonderful things in life, such as Bellatrix transfiguring herself into a clone of the Bandon Banshee for the annual Black costume parade (an improvement, Uncle Alphard had said, and Regulus thought he agreed), and the day Sirius brought home another Muggle invention – an ecklectic Beater which spectacularly failed on the Bludger Regulus hopefully chucked at it in his room.

But the sexy peel surely surpasses them all.

“I’ve never of that before,” Regulus says, hoping the doubt in his voice does not show through. “Why is this particular peel so sexy?”

It is Barty’s turn to blink. “You misheard. Not sexy peel. _Sex PEE._ ”

Even worse.

Regulus ignores Evan’s sudden snort of laughter, and Severus’ quiet, acidic chuckle. “You’re confusing me even more,” he complains to Barty, “first about fruit and now about toilets” –

“Not about fruit or toilets, you idiot,” Barty hisses, now red in the face with frustration, “I said… SEX APPEAL!”

 

* * *

 

The silence following Barty’s shout is louder by far than the cacophony than filled the classroom before. First and second-years stare at them wide-eyed, third and fourth-years glower at them ominously. And Yaxley… Yaxley looks beside himself, brows lowering over dark brown eyes, fists clenched so stiff they are deathly white, and the cords on his neck standing out, taut and red.

Barty’s shout fades on his lips as he stares first into Regulus’ petrified face, and then turns his head and catches Evan’s equally stymied expression. He has no time to utter more than a soft “oh-oh”, and squirm uncomfortably in his seat, before a whirlwind in the form of Abram Yaxley descends on him.

“ENOUGH!”

_Enough_ , Regulus agrees silently. Enough shouting. His ears are now aching in addition to his chest and arms.

Yaxley grips Barty’s collar and lifts him bodily from the chair, thrusting his face within inches of the younger boy’s. “I told you I’d boot you out,” Yaxley hisses. He digs his fingers into the side of Barty’s neck, leaving scarlet thumbprints on the skin. “Enough bloody disturbance for a lifetime. Get out!”

Evan raises an arm. “Abram” –

Yaxley whirls around, the heel of his boot crashing down on the stone floor with a resounding smack. “You too,” he snaps at Evan. “You’re a Merlinforsaken liability. Supposed to be my friend, and doing nothing except egging these miserable little creatures on!”

They stare at each other for an eternity, brown eyes locked on blue.

And then, just as Regulus thinks he will explode, having forgotten to draw breath since the altercation started, Evan rises.

“Fine,” Evan says coldly. “Fine. We’re leaving.” His mouth turns upwards. “You’ve got everybody under your spell anyway.” And putting a hand under Barty’s elbow, he steers them both towards the door.

Regulus rises to go after them, tripping over his bootlaces as he does so, but then, with alarming haste, a manacle of steel descends on his arm.

“Do not go,” Severus whispers, and Regulus slowly collapses onto his cushion, eyes avoiding Yaxley, who has now resumed his speech to the first-years. “You would not want rumours of your misbehaviour to get out to your family, would you?”

Regulus’ breath hitches. “Is that a threat, Severus?”

“Of course not. I just wish to make things easier for you.”

“Mpfghh.” Barty would be rather proud of his snort, Regulus thinks. “Really, Severus? You’ve just been hammering it home to me how easy I already have it” –

“I mean,” Severus interrupts, and though he has not raised his voice the slightest, the creeping menace behind his words stops Regulus cold in his tracks, “with future developments, you may wish to keep in the good graces of your family, as your brother might drop out of them, very soon.”

There is a dryness spreading at the corners of his lips. “I know you don’t like my brother, Severus, but I don’t think you can predict the future, either.”

Severus smirks. “You will not doubt my talents in that direction for very long, Regulus.”

“Are you threatening Sirius, Severus? Is that it?”

“Your brother keeps dangerous friends.”

“Not quite as dangerous as a quartet of Death Eaters to be, I would say.”

“This danger is of an entirely different sort,” Severus whispers. He leans even closer to Regulus, tightening his fingers around the entrapped wrist so hard the nails bite deeply into Regulus’ skin, “a _beastly_ sort, you might say.”

Regulus recoils, and Severus smirks.

“Siri has shielded his little brother well. I told him so – and he agreed.”

A glance at Yaxley confirms that his attention his firmly fixed elsewhere, so Regulus twists his hand out of Severus’ grasp and fastens it on the top button of his jumper instead. “He – he did not…”

“Oh but he did. It is a pity he does not look after his friends with the same ardour – particularly when they have need of him.”

“You are not the judge of his friendships.”

“I can offer you proof that I am… very soon.”

Regulus swallows, shivering, but says nothing. He can only sit there, hunched on the edge of his chair, mittened hand over his still-pounding heart, staring into the opaque black eyes that hold him prisoner with their triumph and malevolence.

 

  _To be continued…_


	8. Almost Patron Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t know there was more than one type,” Sirius admits. “And what does he protest?”

_Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts._

_– John Keats._

 

It is Christmas morning of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Sirius Black is dead.

Not physically dead, of course.

In the ways of the flesh, he is exceedingly alive. There is not blood that runs in his veins but revenge, burning trails firewhisky bright, and this is not the health-giving pumping of his heart, but a force more potent that throws open the valves of his aorta, and shuts them just as abruptly with near-incredible strength. This is life, he supposes, the ongoing machinations of his organs, the rumblings and burblings that erupt suddenly, too-loud in the hushed quiet of the early dawn, broken only by the soft, steady breathing of his friends, blissfully asleep around him.

If only he could sleep too; a sleep from which he would not awake again.

Sirius cannot remember much since the day he attacked Snape in the corridor. He sees his life now as though looking through a muddy mirror, his consciousness in tatters, his memories in uneven fragments, jagged around the edges. Urgency bubbles deep in his abdomen – urgency of what, he knows not – but this is a sheer, keen pain that urges him to know, to seek, to examine everything as much as he can, to be deliberate, to study every moment, and purposefully store each memory away, to nail them down like a coffin, so they may not slip through his fingers and fade away.

His eyes are closed in defence against the slivery light that is beginning to creep through the gaps in the bed-curtains, and his nose is crushed into the pillow. This is the way he likes it, the partial closing of his nostrils, soft cotton flush against his philtrum, each breath a slow, sweet agony.

Not that his friends would describe it so.

James would utter no word, merely press his arm and remove the pillow, Peter would point out that he was suffocating himself inefficiently, and Remus would simply grunt, roll over, and go back to sleep. But surely the best reaction would come from his brother, who would steal the pillow for himself –

“Are you suffocating yourself again, Padfoot?”

Sirius falls off the bed, swearing, and promptly entangles himself in his bed sheets.

“And breaking your limbs too,” Remus adds mildly, hauling himself up to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“And as usual, you think I’m not doing it properly, don’t you?”

Remus smiles. “Of course not.”

“Not that you’d be the one to tell me so.”

“I’ll leave that to Peter. He does it better.”

Sirius groans as best as he can through a mouthful of blanket, and carefully unwraps a pillowcase from around his wrist. “Which is why I wish you would do it for a change…” Climbing back upon his bed, he draws the crumpled blankets close around himself, determined to keep out the light for as long as he can. “And what are you doing up at this unearthly hour, anyway? Nothing less than a global earthquake can usually wake you up” –

Remus shifts slightly, lips twitching upwards in a smile – the smallest of grins, buds blossoming in the pinks of the cheeks, eyes deep puddles of melting chocolate, caught in the shafts of early sunlight pouring in through the half-opened curtains, one of many such quiet moments, an image among hundreds pushed to the back of Sirius’ mind, buried but unforgotten, to be extracted, treasured, many years later – followed by a shrug of the shoulders, a slight displacement of the knitted hood over the worn pyjama top. “Happy Christmas to you too, Pads.”

“Bollocks!”

The laugh that follows peals out so clear and high, it could put any belfry to shame.

Sirius runs his tongue over fast drying lips. “I’d forgotten that it was Christmas.” _Liar, liar, liar._ He has not forgotten.

He has simply ceased to feel.

Remus makes no reply, just eyes Sirius thoughtfully, a spearing gaze that rips his innards into shreds, then turns those fragments inside out.

“Somehow,” Remus says, and his voice is soft, oh so soft, so sharp, “I don’t believe that at all.”

Sirius pokes at the stray strands of wool sticking out of his knitted quilt, twists them around his fingers, breaking them off, one by one. Something – anything – to avoid looking up, to quell the rising urge to stare infinitely into the fathomless eyes so unnervingly fixed on his own. “Why, look at that, Moony, you’ve caught me out. Maybe I should learn to be a better liar.”

“Or maybe learn not to wear your heart on your sleeve so much.”

The laugh bubbles up in his throat of its own accord, heavy with the froth of bitterness. “You can’t fault me on that account, Remus. I doubt I even have a heart.”

Remus reaches out, tears the blankets from Sirius’ arms and lays him bare, all of him, flesh and bones and mind and heart, exposed to more than just the breaking day and the ever-growing winter chills. Brows lowered, lips bitten under by the force of his teeth, Remus drills his glare into Sirius’ cowering eyes. “ _Don’t_ tell me you don’t have a heart. You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“Even Fenrir Greyback?”

Remus recoils, the blankets dropping from his hands.

Sirius’ rejoinder was involuntary, and for one tiny moment, he wishes he could take it back, but now, reading the hurt and shock that flashes across his friend’s face like sunrays glancing off a mirror, Sirius would rather let his question linger.

“Even Fenrir Greyback,” Remus whispers, sitting on the mattress next to Sirius once more. “Although his is black and shrivelled and nasty.”

 

* * *

 

Remus has a heart. Even Sirius can see this, a heart as great and vast as the wide ocean itself. Sirius is none too familiar with oceans, excepting the Cornish coast, where the Black holiday home lies, but if he had to make a guess, comparing Remus’ heart to an ocean would be a fair simile. Not that he would ever tell Remus so, of course. “You could take them to the seaside,” he says suddenly.

Remus brow crinkles up in puzzlement. “Seaside?” he echoes doubtfully.

“The children – you know, the” – Sirius gestures vaguely, the dreaded syllables of _werewolves_ hang thickly in the air. “They like the sea, small children. I used to want to go, when I was little. Reg probably still does…”

“I thought you go to Cornwall every year?”

“Ah yes, but it’s a bit savage over there, isn’t it? Not really suitable for sea bathing. Somewhere slightly gentler, maybe – where do they go, these Muggles? I remember reading about it in the library… Brighton, was it? To hook up with army officers?”

Remus chuckles, then draws the curtains open completely to let in the pale sunbeams and the sparkling frost of the new born day. “You’re quite right, actually, but I doubt it comes to pass these days, Padfoot. In the seventeen-nineties, certainly.”

“We could nick a Time Turner from the Ministry. I bet it would be easy enough.”

Casting a cautious eye over the slumbering forms of James and Peter, Remus chews on his lip as he considers Sirius’ consideration. “Not a bad idea, Padfoot,” he say eventually. “Those Time Turners are still in their development stages, mind – Dad says they haven’t even been patented yet.”

Sirius shrugs off this minor inconvenience, and rises at last from bed – albeit shivering and reluctant. “Why did they have a thumping great article about it in the Prophet, then? Two whole pages and half of the editorial devoted to that alone” –

“Must be hoping that some brilliant young inventor will come along and give them a hand to speed up the process.”

Sirius snorts, but the sound is muffled by the thick wool of the jumper he pulls over his torso. “What a hope.”

Getting up in his turn, Remus wanders back to his own bed, head dipping out of sight as he rummages in his trunk for his own clothes. “Mind you, I wouldn’t be against breaking and entering at all.” His smile turns crooked at the edges as he peeps over his four poster at Sirius. “It’s always been on my bucket list.”

“Before or after the Passion Play at Ober-whateverthenameis?”

“After, as a matter of fact. But there’s no reason why I can’t change the order around a little bit.” Remus picks up a thick stack of parchment on his bedside table, and runs his fingers reflexively over the sharp creases. “Mind you, we could take the little ones along as well. A bit of excitement might be good for them.”

“And here I thought you were the responsible one.”

Remus shrugs, his trademark one-shoulder gesture. “I might hand that duty over to Peter as well. Or to Prongs, since Lily is having quite the effect on him.”

Sirius snorts for the second time in fifteen minutes, and is unaccountably reminded of Barty Crouch. “One friend of that sort is quite enough,” he agrees. He eyes the clean envelope on the top of Remus’ stack of letters, the way the ink blots under his fingers, not quite dry yet, and the still hardening clumps of wax on the broken seal. “That’s why you got up early,” he says, with sudden illumination. “You got a letter – several letters, by the height of that pile. What is it? Is it the children? You took so long to tell me?”

“I didn’t hide it from you.” Remus’ answer to the unasked question is honest, direct, as is everything else he does. “Didn’t get a chance yet, that’s all. Mum’s owl – she’s not even been gone for half an hour yet.” His eyes are shining when he turns from the window seat where he has entrenched himself, to meet Sirius’ own, the apples of the cheeks and tip of the nose glowing a healthy, vigorous pink. “They’ve been brought home last night.” His eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and Sirius tucks this moment away too, in the most precious vaults of his mind. “Just in time for a pleasant Christmas for them, at least. I’m in a mind to go home after the transformation is done tomorrow, actually.”

And then, with the utterance of that simple word – _transformation_ – the shifting of sound into substance, of anger into action, the last reserves of life – reserves so tiny he knew not of their existence – leave Sirius.

He sags against the bedframe, and then, with infinite weariness takes three tiny steps forward, and collapses against the window seat. Silence stretches out between them, unbroken even by the hushed crackling of the flames in the grate, or the minute flurries of snow flung against the windowpanes.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says eventually, quietly – oh, so quietly it could have been mistaken for breathing – but they are the only true words he has spoken in a long, long time.

“I forgive you,” Remus says, just as quietly, after an interminable interval. The phrase is simple, unencumbered, and a sliver of life leaks back into Sirius.

There are few shiny objects in this room, but now, with his senses haywire, their attention is forcibly thrust upon Sirius. Clasps on bags, books and broom servicing kits, a flash of age dulled chrome from the half opened bathroom door, and nearest of all, the glint off the silver cross at Remus’ neck, now worn over, not under, the collar of his jumper.

“Is there a patron saint for children?” Sirius asks on a whim.

Remus looks taken aback, but hesitates only for a second. “I’m sure there is, but I don’t know who.”

“What about orphans? There should be one for them, too, right?”

“Jack and Davy are not orphans,” Remus says, and the bite in his voice is unmistakable, though slight. “And there’s probably a patron saint for orphans too, though I don’t know who that might be, either.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate” –

Sirius cuts off the rest of his fumbling apology when Remus raises his hand, then tried another tack. “How come you don’t know these things?” He nods to the cross at his friend’s throat, watching as a knuckles tighten when slender fingers reach up and grasp the precious metal. “You’re what these Muggles call Catholic, aren’t you?”

“I’m not, actually,” Remus replies evenly.

This is genuinely surprising. Wizarding populations do not regard highly anything that does not acknowledge the superiority of possessing magical blood – Muggle-centric politics, social systems and faith amongst them. The small number of witches and wizards who did belong to one faith or another – they were fewer amongst the western communities, Sirius knew from his hours in the Grimmauld library, for faith and philosophy had deeper, older roots in eastern cultures – took care to keep their beliefs hidden, guarding them as closely kept secrets.

But never had Remus been one of these. For all the fear behind his eyes at the possible discovery of his lycanthropy, he has never shied away from displaying the cross on his neck. Nothing overt, nothing ever deliberately designed to call for comment, but shining through with subtle finesse in every action.

“You aren’t?”

“No,” Remus says, tones milder now. “Mum is, though. I’d have said very devout – but she married Dad, who’s Anglican.”

Sirius blinks. “Anglo-what?”

Remus’ crooked grin appears again. “Anglican. A type of Protestant.”

“I didn’t know there was more than one type,” Sirius admits. “And what does he protest?”

“Sprouts for dinner, mainly. Can’t stand them.” Remus grins twists into a laugh. “The split was historical – I won’t bore you,” he interrupts himself quickly, evidently noticing Sirius’ eyes glazing over – “nothing in the practical sense these days, except some changes in the order of service.”

“Oh.” Sirius hesitates at this juncture, unsure whether to ask the next question. “What about yourself?” Best to take the plunge.

“I’m… you could say, Anglo-Catholic,” Remus answers slowly.

“Like… a mix of both?”

“Anglican, but high church. Lots of hymns, services similar to Catholics. Bells and smells, the Muggles call it. And that’s not a compliment,” he adds.

Sirius looks away from the little cross to the snow outside. There is a break in the blizzard, the dark green tops of the pines can be made out, sloping away to the north and east far below the castle. The air of unreality surrounding this conversation shocks Sirius in spite of himself. Anything non-magical has always borne this feeling of unreality for him who has been so steeped in powerful magic since the very minute of his birth. But yet, he thinks, there is power in this faith thing too, this strange thing he had considered until now to be nothing more than a list of rules and regulations followed blindly in order to fulfil something that was indefinable.

“Is it important, Moony?” He asks at last. “Is it important to you?”

“Yes,” Remus says simply, without hesitation.

Rubbing his palms against each other, Sirius does his best to look his friend full-on, but cannot quite meet his eyes. “What’s the crux of this business?”

“God, for us, but what’s more of interest to you is the soul.” Remus eyes him thoughtfully. “You do believe in the soul, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” Sirius knows that the soul is important. Although he has not bothered to discern the particulars, he knows that the deepest and most complex of magic is intrinsically tied up in this unexplainable word. “So… this werewolf home – does it contribute to the survival of your soul?”

Remus’ eyes shoot sparks, warm brown turning as cold as frosted iron, as it had that day in the corridor, and Sirius kicks himself mentally. He is not fully cognizant of the fine, tenuous meaning Remus bestows on the word survival, though he has made some progress since that day. “No,” he says quickly, before Remus’ jaw begins to set – the second stage of an impending thunderstorm – “not that your soul will die if you don’t, or – or anything like that. Do you need this, for your soul to become better?

A slight relaxing of his friend’s tense shoulders and jaws alike signal that the danger is past. “I’m not obligated to do this, if that’s what you’re asking” –

“Yes, you do it because you want to” –

“The soul is sentient,” Remus says quietly, ignoring Sirius’ interruption. “It isn’t fixed, or countable, so most people just ignore it, but it can change, you know. Things like this… this home… it can make the soul grow.”

The intuitive and the intangible are hallmarks of discomfort for Sirius, but unaccountably, he wishes he had Remus’ assuredness, his resolve. What would it be like, despite the monthly ravages the physical body faces, to dwell in a mind so greatly at peace with mysteries, to revel in the unknown?

He thinks he will not ever know.

He cannot know because it is beyond him now. If natural acts of generosity and humility can grow the soul, so too should spontaneous acts of cruelty diminish it. And his is certainly too shattered to repair, too fragmented to coax the pieces into an untarnished whole.

All he has is the certainty that he has done something wrong – this he gathers from the horrifying remnants of his memories of that day.

Whether his friends have an inkling of this tragedy, it is hard to say. There are boundaries to subjects he discusses with Peter, even with James. With Remus, these limitations are so blurred he cannot see where they end. Sometimes, as now, in the natural flow of things, he thinks they do not exist.

Sirius knows that Remus knows. His friend surely knows, and his inimitable way, will try to help him.

But it will be to no avail, because Sirius is too far gone for saving.

 

* * *

 

Sirius’ yelp is muffled in short order as Regulus stuffs a handkerchief into his brother’s mouth, and pushes him through the narrow doorway into the empty classroom. Sirius’ glare is piercing despite the wool that covers half his face, and with an easy, rhythmic twist of his hand, he tears himself from Regulus’ grip.

“What in Great Godric’s name was that?” Sirius turns, and draws himself up to his full height of six-foot-three, towering menacingly over Regulus, who is almost a good foot shorter than he. The light of the flickering flames in the fireplace throw their profiles on to the stone wall immediately to their left, a seeming parody of David and Goliath at first glance.

Regulus is not intimidated; he has had sixteen years of practise at this. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he accuses.

Sirius’ eyes flicker – the barest drop of an eyelid which would have gone unnoticed, but Regulus is an expert at reading his brother – then the grey hardens like steel. “Of course I’m not. Why d’you think I’ll be scared of a little shrimp like you?”

Regulus draws in a deep breath, winces when the air grinds in his lungs, bringing another spasm of the now familiar pain to close in a fist around his heart. He latches onto his brother’s collar while he recovers, because Sirius cannot be trusted not to make a run for it. “Honestly, Sirius? Half the day had gone by, and not even a ‘merry Christmas?’”

“I sent you a present. Three gifts, actually. That’s two more than last year.”

Regulus grits his teeth, and carefully eases one hand from Sirius’ jumper. “I can count, you know.”

Sirius raises one eyebrow into an elegant arch. “Could’ve fooled me. Mind you, last year’s present was rather bigger than this year’s three, but still...” He cocks his head slightly to the left, and directs his gaze at Regulus’ boots. “Not that the same could be said for you, Reggie. You only gave me one gift.” The slight hurt in his tones are pitched to perfection.

Scowling, Regulus frees his brother completely, aware that the danger of escape is now past. “One present all right,” he acknowledges, “but a very _big_ one. The newest thing in broom servicing kits. Tail clippers, three types of waxing polish, gloss, even a tail-end list corrector. For Salazar’s sake, what more do you want?”

“We-ell, the Nimbus servicing kit is slightly newer than the Cleansweep, so...”

Irritation pools in Regulus stomach, and refluxes up his throat, coming to rest somewhere amongst his ribs. “Much good a Nimbus kit would do you, considering that the broom you have is a Cleansweep. And don’t you dare try to turn this on me, Sirius. D’you think you’d have had any chance of coming home for next Easter, let alone once you’re done with Hogwarts forever, if I hadn’t grovelled at Father’s feet every day, or if I didn’t keep on writing those bloody-bullshit-placatory letters to Mother weekly?” He curls his fingers into a fist, thrusts it into pocket, feeling with his thumb the jagged edge of a second draft of such a letter. _“Dear Mother, Sirius has been such a good boy this week. He has hexed no Purebloods, left no stink bombs under Professor Slughorn’s chair, he even helped me with my Charms homework... Dear Mother, Sirius has a had a fight with that Potter boy, so he’s well shot of his influence for a day at least, his latest girlfriend is a Halfblood, which is an improvement on last month’s Mudblood”_ –

“Don’t say that word” –

_“Dear Mother,”_ Regulus drives on, fiercely, ruthlessly, overriding his brother’s interruption, _“Sirius has cancelled his subscription to that Muggle mechanical magazine” –_

“Hang on, I never cancelled my subscription to _Motormind_. And I’ve never helped you with your Charms homework either!”

“That’s why it’s called a _bullshit_ letter, you dunderheaded nincompoop.”

Sirius gives a one-shouldered shrug, all quirky charm and nonchalance, another trick he has picked up from Lupin. This only serves to infuriate Regulus further. He draws the letter from his pocket, thrusts the crumpled parchment into his brother’s chest. “Consider these sixteen years worth of presents from me. Unappreciated presents, I might add.” He draws a breath, a shaky, painful inhalation; finds the oxygen dissolves before it reaches his lungs, leaves his heart fluttering faster than before. “If not for my constant damage control, you might be a cursed, injured homeless body, lying in a heap somewhere on a Muggle street. In fact, the chances are greater that you would be dead.”

“I can look after myself better than you give me credit for,” Sirius says, words soft, but blurred with anger around the edges.

Regulus snorts, then walks around the teacher’s desk, seats himself in one of front row student’s chairs, rubbing his mittens together in an effort to warm the flesh underneath. “You might think so, Sirius. But from where I’m sitting, the view’s different.”

Sirius snorts in his turn, now mustering up enough energy to fling himself into the chair opposite Regulus’. “The view must be great for you, Reg. What do you see, Slytherin ars” –

“Whatever it is, it’s a better view than your posters of those ridiculous bits of metal and flesh that pass for models straddling tomobikes.”

“It’s a _motorbike_ ,” Sirius breaks in aggrievedly. “And I’m quite sure I’d rather look at motorcycles – or even bucket loads of scrap metal – rather than the ugly mugs of those prissy, pie-faced housemates of yours.”

“Your next present will be a dictionary,” Regulus promises, extending a booted foot and poking his brother in the thigh. “Your vocabulary is rather limited, and not all apt. None of them are prissy or pie-faced. I take objection to that. Barty and Evan aren’t bad at all – maybe a little more on the sexy peel” –

“The _what_ ” –

“Don’t interrupt,” Regulus snaps. “Now Severus may not have quite as much charm, but he makes up for it in brains. Even you have to admit that, Sirius.”

“I will admit nothing. Especially when it comes to Snivellus,” Sirius says vigorously. With a flick of his wand, he sets the flames flickering high in the fireplace. The warmth begins to seep throughout the room at once; Sirius has always been good with pyrotechnics. A useful skill in the draughty, gloomy confines of Grimmauld Place, and one Regulus has been trying to acquire for many years now with unsatisfactory results. However, Regulus’ negotiation skills almost make up for this. The loss of a quarter of his monthly pocket money towards Sirius’ mechanics fund is a small price to play for a roaring blaze in his bedroom fireplace each night. Mechanics is Sirius’ only concession to the non-magical, and Regulus understands. After all, his own concession is a vague interest in Muggle literature.

“Is that it, then?” Regulus asks. “You’re avoiding me because you don’t like me being friends with Severus?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you” –

“Yes you were,” Regulus breaks in, doing his best to keep his voice level, “and you’re avoiding my question as well.”

“Look, it’s no secret that I don’t like Snape. I think you’re a lot better off without his friendship and his company. He’s dangerous, Reggie.”

“No more so than you, Sirius.”

Sirius shakes his impatiently, rather like a dog. “I’m your brother. How much harm do you think I can do you?”

“I wouldn’t discount danger on basis of family, Sirius. Just think about Bellatrix...”

Huffing out a half laugh, Sirius leans back against his chair. “Maybe you’ve got a point there. I can harm you, I suppose, out of anger – or passion – or” –

“Or sheer uncaring recklessness?”

Sirius slumps. “Yes. That.”

Regulus leans forward now, as much as he can, without exacerbating the stitch in his chest. This is a useful tactic, this opposition of postures, a power move to almost envelop the other person, who is laid back, exhibiting weakness. And especially effective with Sirius. “But it isn’t just carelessness with you. It never is. There’s always an element of thrill, an exhilaration in anticipating the result, isn’t there? And then – then you do things, even when it concerns other people, just to feel that thrill, to see where it leads, don’t you?”

The colour is high in Sirius’ cheeks, burning a bright, fever-scarlet. His eyes look anywhere but at Regulus, but leaning even closer, Regulus can see them, and it is like looking in a mirror, a mirror reflecting all the horror and terror and guilt he has felt throughout the years, condensed into a second.

“Maybe,” Sirius murmurs at last. “Maybe you’re right.”

“And you can guess why I’ve being trying so hard to cover your tracks and save your rather puny posterior?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says subdued. He sighs, then draws in a gusty breath, shoulders straightening fractionally. “You know, I said _I’m sorry_ to someone for the time in my life this morning? It felt _real_.”

Regulus would bet his entire chocolate frog card collection that neither of them has felt real in a very, very long time.

“I suppose it’s time to say something like that to you too,” Sirius continues. “So... thank you.”

Regulus inclines his head; a stiff little nod of acknowledgement, which is all he can muster at present. Blacks do not apologise or give thanks, and Regulus reminds himself of this. Sirius unwinds his scarf and throws it across at Regulus, who wraps it around his neck without delay. Clearly, Sirius has also noticed the blue tinge that has begun working his way up his cheeks and nose.

“Do you think there’s a patron saint for – you know – nutters like me?” Sirius asks, awkwardly, out of the blue.

“I don’t know,” Regulus replies, startled into candour. “But why the sudden question?”

“Oh, just something I remembered. Anyhow, now that we’ve acknowledged I can be dangerous, can you also please say the same about Snape?”

“Go o, then. I’m listening.”

“He’s premeditated. He isn’t just out to insult and bully people in general; everything he does is deliberate. The connections he makes, the friends he keeps. Not just in their formation, but also in the way he breaks them. He chooses to end them, manipulating people, biding his time.”

This hits too close to home for comfort. Also, this harkens back to a day, to another conversation to which Regulus has given little thought until now. He reaches over and taps his brother on a shoulder, a slight touch of fingers that leaves his brother shuddering. “This is about that day when the four of us bumped into you in the corridor, isn’t it? You think Severus is going to do something to you?”

_It is a pity he does not look after his friends with the same ardour – particularly when they have need of him..._

The words rise unbidden in his memory. “He’s going to do something to your friends?”

Sirius slumps forward, a sharp, quick movement that has Regulus at his side in an instant. His brother has his hands over his face, eyes hidden, wisps of long black caught tightly between gloved fingers. “I can’t remember. That’s just it... he’s going to do something.” Regulus begins to swear, cuts himself off abruptly at his brother’s voice, broken, heavy laden with tears. “My memory is gone, Reg. I don’t... I can’t even _feel_ things anymore. Not like a real person can...”

“Do you know what he’s planning?”

A gasp, a sob, and a minute shake of the head. “I don’t even know if he said anything, or gave a clue... It’s all blurred, that day... just – just terrible, terrible darkness...”

“Tell your friends, Sirius. They need to know.”

“I tried... but... but I can’t. I _can’t._ ”

“You have to,” Regulus says, and clasps his brother’s shoulder. Sirius has to, but Regulus is not sure that he will. And so, he will take on his customary mantle of guardian and damage-control manager, and speak to Severus, and to Sirius’ friends himself.

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.


	9. The Art Of Extracting Incriminating Information From Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that matters is the small chance he has of putting things right for his brother, and – oh, guilty, guilty – the sudden, strange stab of euphoria in his guts at his first successful attempt at the art of extracting incriminating information from friends.

_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity._

_-_ Proverbs _17:17_

 

Ghostly green, occasionally lightening to a vivid electrifying white, bedazzling the eyes with its sudden splendour, darkening almost instantly to a deep, mesmerizing black; these are the colours of the Slytherin common room. Thick stone slabs walling in the basement, made translucent on two sides by the hand of Salazar Slytherin himself to allow views of the lake and its inhabitants; luxurious leather couches and armchairs offsetting the austerity of the other furniture, all harsh, dark wood and sharp angles; these are the elements of Regulus’ school life, the shades and shadows that have coloured his world for the better part of six years.

It differs from Grimmauld Place in the quality of texture and ambience: smooth against rough, rich against opulent, luminosity against mud; concurs with Grimmauld across the range of colours: green, brown, black and silver. This is harmony, Regulus thinks for the umpteenth time, sinking onto a couch beside Severus Snape, who is busy stirring a cauldron. Balance is precious to him, made all the dearer by the knowledge that his world may soon swing completely out of rhythm, and this common room – closer to his heart than his own home – has the all the balance he requires: similar enough to the rooms of his childhood for security, and different enough to the weighty atmosphere therein for stimulation.

Severus might feel the same, judging by the brew he is currently making. Regulus leans over the silver vessel, closes his eyes, breathes in old parchment and new snitch-leather, dog biscuits and the barest hint of chocolate. “If I didn’t know better Sev, I’d say these were gold ingots you’re liquefying.”

“And would that not be more useful to us all? But Evan will disagree with you, I am afraid.”

“Planning on going out with Evan and catching a few butterflies, are you?”

“I will be dealing with something much more dangerous than Lepidoptera tonight,” Severus replies evenly. “However, that still lies in the distant future. My time now is entirely devoted to assisting Evan... he is having some trouble in that department.”

Regulus sucks in another deep lungful, still keeping his eyes closed. This is not the right moment to ask Severus what he is planning tonight, so he tries a different tack. “I thought he’d make progress with Dorothy?”

“He has ensnared the bird, but she will do no more than flutter her wings.”

Regulus cocks his head, deigns to open one eye. “She’s a bird Animagus? Didn’t think she had enough brains to do that, actually. Even I wouldn’t attempt it. Anyway, what sort of bird?” –

“ _Diedre,_ ” Severus says severely, making Regulus feel ashamed of his inability to remember the girl’s name, “is _not_ an Animagus. Do not take everything so literally. Having breathed the same air as Barty for six years should have given you ample practise at untangling metaphors and mysteries in daily conversation.” He stirs three times counter-clockwise, then adds two drops of steamed Gurdyroot to the mixture. “Their only drawback – according to them both – is that they have done no more than hold hands at present.”

“And he’s recruited you to try and rectify that, then.” Regulus lets his head flop back onto the leather with a loud _thunk._ “Salazar’s eyeballs. Just like Evan to make a move on Christmas night too.”

“They wish to move to the – er – _kissing_ stage,” Severus says, words dragged out softly and unwillingly, as though a source of great pain. “The idea was Deirdre’s, I believe. She communicated it to Evan, who brought it to my notice.”

“Let’s hope it’s truly Deirdre’s idea. If Evan is trying to pass it off as Deidre’s brainchild, it’s coercion.”

Severus shrugged. “I do not believe Evan will stoop to such subterfuge.”

Regulus snorts, as loudly and disdainfully as he can. He has been waiting all day for such an opportunity, because his brother somehow got in a better snort than he did – and it is a pity Barty is not here to appreciate it. “I don’t really think Evan will do that either. But what in Salazar’s name was he doing, all those hours tucked away here and there with Deirdre?”

“Holding hands and listening to wireless broadcasts of the Saturday Quidditch League, apparently.”

“Oh.” Regulus blinks, and thinks that is rather a nice thing to do. He is sure that sitting next to somebody you like, listening to an interesting programme, or perhaps just conversing, is a much better activity than snogging and groping at every opportunity. But each to his own, he supposes, with a mental shrug. “And they think Amortentia after a bit of Christmas pudding is the way to go about it, is it?”

“I offered them a roast turkey flavoured aphrodisiac, but they refused.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure I can’t think why.”

“She has a certain beauty,” Severus acknowledges grudgingly. “Even I can see that. I would not, however, agree with Evan’s observation that her worth shines more brightly than a chest full of goblin-wrought silver.”

“I’m sure I’ve heard a poem or line to that effect,” Regulus offers. “Yeast, I think the poet’s name was... ‘A thing of booty is a joy forever’” –

Severus turns his most withering glare on Regulus. “Muggle poetry is of no interest to me.”

“But _she_ reads it,” Regulus murmurs to himself, thinking of the many times he has seen Evans pouring over books of verse and rhyme in all sorts of nooks and corners in the library. Aloud, he utters no word, just watches as Severus reaches out a thin hand for the vial of Bigglerot on the table, uncorks it, and adds three strands to the concoction. “Hang on,” Regulus says suddenly; leaning forward, “did you pinch my bottle of Bigglerot?”

“Certainly not. I have extensive stores of my own. You must have mislaid it, as usual.”

“No I didn’t. Bigglerot isn’t the only thing that’s missing either. I forgot to ask around, what with one thing and another, but my Kermanroot has gone missing too. And my ampoules of Wedgehorn and even the Boomslang skin I ordered just two weeks ago.” He has searched all the boys’ dormitories from top to bottom, but found no trace of the ingredients.

“This place is full of thieves. The sooner you begin the practise of keeping written accounts of your stockroom, the better for you. You will be thankful one day, if the Dark Lord has reason to call upon your potion making skills for his order.”

“I doubt I’ll ever be that good, Severus. Brewing for the Dark Lord is more in your line of work, anyway.”

Potion making is an art that requires precision and balance, and Regulus is sensitive to atmosphere; while the Slytherin common room maybe ideal for the purpose, it is doubtful whether the space given by the Dark Lord will be suitable. Death Eater accommodations would be better geared for interrogating acquaintances, Regulus thinks. After all, who could engage in such sinister acts with two mermen poking their tongues out and making cross eyes at them from the other side of the glass?

Severus jabs his wand in the direction of the mermen, who flee, pausing only to gesture rudely with their tridents at him. “My present line of work includes brewing potions to indulge the vagaries of teenage moods. I highly doubt the Dark Lord will find it useful.”

“The Dark Lord will no doubt find something else useful for you, Severus – if you’re still intent on joining up.” Regulus reaches out for a handful of berries on Severus’ cutting board, and throws them into the potion, which turns a darker, shimmering shade of gold at once.

“Feverfew?” Severus curls his lip, and delicately prods the liquid with his wand. “You risk reducing the potency of the ardour.”

Shrugging one shoulder – which does not work quite as well as he wishes – Regulus leans back against the leather. “It’s good for mild hallucinations, though.”

“And hallucinations are clearly what Evan and Deirdre desire tonight…”

“It might be… how do you know? I’ve read about it. There was a book in the Grimmauld Library about it” –

“Do not except to learn about matter of this sort from books, Regulus” –

But this too good an opportunity to miss. Severus might maintain than some things are better learned from the world, rather than from books, but Regulus knows that books _are_ the world. Besides, this intended information-extraction venture is taking much longer than expected. He will have to leave for Prefect duty soon.

Perhaps embarrassing Severus about something completely different will stun him into sharing the secret.

“How else are you to learn it, then? It was called _The Armour of Amor_ and it was excellent. Did you know that redheads are supposed to be really sexual animals? They’re hard to approach generally – skittish like deer, actually – but once you get going, they’re fantastic. They like kissing too. I’m not much into kissing myself, but _The Armour_ recommends kissing a redhead” – Regulus cuts off abruptly, the words sheared off by an invisible scythe, as Severus chokes and splutters, an ugly mauve flush creeping up the pale cheeks.

Too late, an image of red hair, green eyes and freckles rises in Regulus’ mind.

“Oh no. I’m sorry, Sev – I really am. I didn’t mean to insinuate you wanted to kiss her. No – I mean, I can understand why you want kiss her” –

The apples of Severus’ cheeks turn a mottled pink.

“No – I mean, not that you aren’t kissable, but” –

Severus flushes red.

“Maybe she just isn’t that into kissing” –

From red to bright, angry crimson.

Regulus stumbles, but keeps on going valiantly. “I don’t think she even kisses – you know, him – she’s taken, but you can still be friends, despite what Evan says” –

“Regulus,” Severus grinds out through gritted teeth. “A dictionary would greatly aid your fluency.”

“I’ll pass it on to Sirius; he needs it more than I,” Regulus mutters under his breath, but says no more, interpreting Severus’ remark as his version of _shut up._

Awkward silences are more common between Regulus and Severus than between Regulus and Barty or Evan. Perhaps it is the taciturn outlook that falls naturally to both of them, but the muted tones of camaraderie and comfort that allow Regulus to sit beside Barty for hours at a time without stirring are markedly absent.

 Regulus moves not an inch, arms folded over his lap, trying desperately to cool the angry flush that insists on sitting on his cheeks, and slow the fluttering of his heart. Steadfastly ignoring the presence beside him, Regulus fixes his eyes instead on a group of Grindylows swimming past a clump of rushes, visible through the translucent wall directly opposite him, and scowls when one of them sticks their middle finger up at him.

_Charming._ Severus might think of kissing one of them if he can make no progress with anybody else. After all, they seem to share the same temperament.

“Done,” Severus says presently, siphoning a generous amount of the potion into an ampoule and putting in his left pocket. Into his right, he slips another tiny opaque blue bottle.

Time to kick off operations.

“Will you be coming back after you give the potion to Evan? Barty and I were thinking of playing chess, and if you join, we can make a tournament of it.”

Severus hesitates.

_Jackpot._ “Hanging around for a signal that it works then?”

“Don’t make crass suggestions.” Severus sneers slightly, adjusts the hems of his cuffs. “I have… private business.”

“Secret business?”

Severus turns around as suddenly as the crack of a whip. “Black has put you up to this, hasn’t he? What did Black tell you? You’ve just come from meeting him, haven’t you?”

Regulus does not twitch a muscle. “What makes you think that?”

“What did he say? Perhaps he told you that he and his little gang are up to something illegal tonight.” Severus stares at the swiftly darkening waters beyond the translucent wall, at the fuzzy grey shapes swimming into the twilight. “Did he tell you what it was? They have their little games…”

Mouth drying, Regulus can only stare back at the fierce glint in Severus’ eyes.

“Well, well, well.” Severus’ lips turn up in a cruel smile. “Looks like Black did not tell little Reggie that it was illegal business, was it? Did he camouflage it – perhaps as some noble cause – _helping_ someone maybe?”

Regulus ignores the jibe – for the time being only, storing it up carefully in his mind to deal with later – and fixes his eyes on Severus. “Assisting others isn’t illegal as far as I know, Severus.”

“Not in regard to people, unfortunate though that maybe. However, when it comes to – ah, other beings, the laws get slightly more… hairy.” Severus’ smile turns into a full blown grin, the black of his irises reflecting green. “Not to mention breaking several school rules.”

“That’s never been high on their list.”

“Not your brother’s, perhaps, but Head Boy Potter” – and oh, how the venom came creeping through – “and that perfect Prefect Lupin have been careful all year not to soil their records any more. But that will all change now.”

Time for the catalyst. “I don’t believe you.” Regulus juts his chin forward, noting with triumph the flash of anger in Severus’ eyes. “They’re trouble makers all right, but they’d never do anything unlawful.”

But Severus can play this game too. Regulus is no Legilimens, but he can see the wheels turning in his friend’s mind, even as Severus slips that carefully blank veneer over his expression. “Have I ever lied to you, Regulus?”

Regulus cocks his head to the left, tries the one-shoulder shrug again. “I can’t really say, you know, Sev. You’re a closed book, even to me. But I daresay you have.” A pause, a fraction of heartbeat. “Plenty of times.”

Severus moves forward, hooks a finger around the collar of Regulus’ jumper. “Not this time. I’ll catch them at it. And I told you not three days ago that I’ll give you proof.” His hold on the collar tightens. Regulus twitches, but does not draw away. “Come with me. See for yourself – at the Whomping Willow.”

“A likely tale,” Regulus scoffs. “Not even Gryffindors are fool enough to play games with the Willow. Nobody has been within ten yards of it since Gudgeon was injured.”

“They know how to get past it,” Severus hisses, letting Regulus go, and wiping his hands on his robes. “They have some way of freezing it, some spell or charm.”

“It’ll have to be a pretty powerful one to stop something so massive in its tracks. I know my brother is good with spells, but even he can’t produce something so accurate – especially when the subject in question is trying to kill him.”

Severus smiles, fingers snaking down to his right pocket. “A single drop of the correct potion will work wonders.”

Carefully, Regulus twists his face into a grimace. “You’ve been planning this for weeks, haven’t you?”

His scowl is answered with a smile, as blood-chilling as any he has ever seen Severus wear. “I have been hoping for such an opportunity for months. But even I could scarcely have hoped to have it handed to me on a platter by those idiots.” With a flick of his wand, Severus turns down the green lamps on the table, and by the stairs. “I suggest you stop making excuses for your brother, and that you also stop over thinking. I have made preparations – there will be no danger on this little... trip, for us. In fact, you might even enjoy it.”

“All right,” Regulus says, matching Severus’ steps as he matches towards the door, “I’ll give you your chance.” Elation aerates in his stomach like bubbles on a Butterbeer, but he keeps his steps in check, keeps his eyes, his face, his mind as vapid as a slate. “I’ll meet you here after Prefect Duty is over, and we’ll go along to the Whomping Willow together.”

“You will not regret it,” Severus says.

The dungeon corridors are dark, devoid of the spine-tingling electricity that hovers over the Common Room like a charged thundercloud, and the Regulus feels suddenly tired as he follows Severus up the stairs. His friend’s face is misleadingly ordinary; just pale skin stretched over sharp bones, the heavy shutters that close off the glimmer in his eyes are nothing more than dank, dull drapes.

But when he speaks again, although his voice is low and his tones are even, the words cause Regulus to stumble mid-step. “Start getting ready for other things too, Regulus. A little bit of the power and glory you have been hoping for might well be heading your way soon. Write to your mother soon, and prepare to take on the crown of the Black family.”

Then it is all that Regulus can do to stop his wand and his arm from rising and slapping Severus across the face, it is almost more than he can bear to keep moving and not send Severus head over heels onto the landing below.

But it does not matter, Regulus tells himself as he struggles up the last few steps to the Entrance Hall, this momentary sensation of fear, like snakes crawling in his stomach, or the slow-blooming dislike of a boy he once considered a good mate. Nothing matters, not even the painful, heaving gasps that pass now for his breathing every time he takes violent exercise, or the growing coldness he feels inside him. All that matters is the small chance he has of putting things right for his brother, and – oh, guilty, guilty – the sudden, strange stab of euphoria in his guts at his first successful attempt at the art of extracting incriminating information from friends.

 

_To be continued..._


	10. This Last Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here lies the book of Regulus, Volume I, laid open for all to read.

_In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths._

_\- Proverbs 3:6_

 

Not until Regulus knocks at the door of the Prefects’ Room does it occur to him that he does not know exactly what this illegal bust-up is supposed to be. Severus has slipped the noose despite Regulus’ best efforts. Close knit their group might be, but they deal in secrets and subtle, closely guarded power games. _Insulting,_ Regulus thinks, as he marches past the statue of Twuckletap the Tipsy who tries to trip him up with an empty firewhisky bottle. Growing up at Mother’s knee, with the Black family mind games for sustenance, he should have had the upper hand over Severus.

Annoyance is still bubbling in his stomach when the wooden door gives way in answer to his wand, to reveal the bright and fiery head of one Lily Evans. Her face is almost split in two by her smile. “Come in, Regulus,” she says, and he follows her in with only a small stab of guilt in the region of his lungs.

Definitely more beautiful than Doris.

She lacks neither spirit nor temper, but she has always been cordial to him, always calling him by his given name, unlike most of the other Gryffindors – and even some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws – who simply called him Black, or – Salazar forbid – ‘Sirius’ brother’.

Said Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are gathered in their own little knots on the north and east side of the room respectively. The Gryffindors sprawl in their customary chairs in the middle, with the Slytherins sitting close, but distinctly aloof. Tug-of-war even here, when they are all supposed to be united in authority.  Luckily, Christmas holidays means that duties are light, and schedules are relaxed, so he has a good chance of picking his partner of choice for the roster tonight.

Potter and Lupin are seated together as usual, hair glimmering black and gold by in the dancing firelight as they discuss some point earnestly. A flash of silver catches his eye as he turns to sit, making him pause a moment. Not from the cross at Lupin’s neck, which is tucked into his jumper, but from something small – a pendant perhaps or a locket – half hidden in Potter’s palm. Neither of them looks up as he takes his chair beside Barty – who is dressed in a mauve jersey with a cluster of glaring pineapples right in the centre – and picks up an empty timetable from the stack lying ready before him.

Evans dispatches assignments with her customary vigour, and Regulus ceases to pay attention when his rather large dinner kicks in. A sleepy quietude overtakes him, the heat of the fire even sends a mild warmth washing over his ever-chilled fingers, and he slides further down his chair, giving half an ear to the indistinguishable prattle from the two Gryffindors, and to Barty’s snuffles as he recalls the half an hour he spent Flooing his parents and his house elf.

Until he is roused by the sound of the names for which he has been waiting. A chance for help – and perhaps – a reluctant confession.

“Now James, if you’d take the Ravenclaw corridor patrol with Gareth” –

“But Lily, I was hoping you’d take this round with me” –

“I’ll take it with Potter,” Regulus breaks in.

Silence pervades the small room. Potter and Lupin both stare at him, eyebrows raised, and even Evans looks up from the duties list at last. “What for?” Potter asks, sounding justly astounded. “You’re usually so keen to stay as far away from me as you can.”

“I – er… fancied a walk round the Ravenclaw block. Haven’t been there in ages.”

Gareth Stebbins snorts, and ignoring Barty’s scowl, leans over and pokes Regulus’ shoulder. “Why? Thinking of stocking up on a bit of wit and learning? You certainly need it, if that paltry excuse is all you can come up with.”

“What’s the harm? It’s my school, isn’t it? I can patrol where I want.”

“No, you can’t. I am a Ravenclaw, and the safety of my housemates is my first concern.” Stebbins folds his arms over his chest. “Besides, Potter and I have got Quidditch things to discuss.” Adroitly, he avoids an elbow to the ribs from Potter, who is still looking longingly at Evans.

“I can discuss Quidditch things too,” Regulus says, but inwardly, it is all he can to do stop his heart from dropping with a thud into his boots. Potter is Head Boy, and Stebbins a senior Prefect of excellent standing; he can make no case against them.

“Not Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch, you can’t,” Potter replies evenly, clearly having decided to follow Stebbins’ lead. “If you’re so keen, you can take a stroll around the place after your assigned duty is done.”

Regulus scowls, his face aflame with heat, but subsides. It is best to bide his time, and push his proposal forward more subtly when the next chance arises. Potter and Stebbins are still staring, as is Barty. Even Lupin looks at him now, the chocolate eyes fixed on his own with a puzzled and bewildered gaze, dropping ever so often to his trembling hands and fast-drying lips.

Perhaps… given that day in the corridor, that slight, unforgiving, unformed suspicion Regulus cannot banish from the back of his mind, Lupin would be the better choice.

Regulus does not dare meet Lupin’s eyes, or make known his silent pleas, and so resorts to crushing his gloveless fingers until they are red and chapped and stinging.

“And Regulus, if you’ll take the Astronomy Tower” –

“I’ll take it with him,” Lupin offers.

For the second time, everybody’s eyes stop at Regulus. He glares back with as much venom as he can muster. Barty lets out a snort, a very magnificent one indeed, an exquisite mixture of surprise and disbelief and disdain, but Regulus really cannot be bothered to appreciate the fine art of snorting at present. He is rewarded for his negligence by a hard poke in the ribs, which has him doubling over with a grunt.

“But… but Moony,” Potter breaks in, “we won’t have time to – to get down to – er – business, if you have to come all the way from the Astronomy Tower.”

“Are you sure, Remus?” Evans asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t exert yourself…”

Lupin’s brows knit together, and the first hint of stubbornness is visible in his firmly set jaw. “I’ll be fine. Besides, if any of the students decide to take Christmas merrymaking a little too far, and start drinking away up top there, Regulus will need some help with crowd control.” A perfectly solid reason at first glance, but it nettles Regulus all the same, when Evans and Potter take the excuse with good grace. Surely, they do not think him totally incompetent, unable to handle a handful of rowdy teenagers by himself?

He did not distinguish himself on duty that day when decorations were going up in the Great Hall. Potter was there – not that he did any better – but nothing Regulus has to say would be serious enough to garner his attention any more.

Or Sirius enough.

His brother would certainly appreciate that tired joke, since he liked to make many of them himself. Severus and Evan would not care, but Barty might secretly like it. Potter probably would not, despite having a juvenile sense of humour. Lupin may well be the only one to understand the irony that underpinned –

“Regulus?”

And there he is, Lupin, looking at Regulus again, wide eyes framed with light lashes half-closed with concern. He smiles without malice when Regulus starts. “Is that arrangement agreeable to you?”

“Of course,” Regulus says gracefully, and, ignoring Barty’s insistent plucking at his sleeve, files quietly out after Lupin when the session ends.

 

* * *

Darkness comes early to the Scottish forests in the winter months, but today, the light lingers longer. An anomaly in this week of lowering skies and unending snowstorms, but all the more welcome for that. This is not the light of the mornings and afternoons, when snow lies upon every surface in a blinding blanket, but leaves the forms underneath clearly defined, but a strange and horrific colour that bathes the world in its half-translucent, half-opaque glow. The walls of the Astronomy Tower staircase are three feet thick, and so the light, and the merciless, biting wind strike through his clothes with double the force when Regulus steps out onto the floor of the open turret.

Lupin, by his side, casts an anxious gaze up at the gathering clouds above.

There is no moon and no stars.

“Not an ideal night for Astronomical studies,” Regulus observes lightly.

“That depends on your explanation of the ideal,” Lupin replies. His tones are laced with a bitterness so slight it is barely discernible, but for Regulus, with his senses on overdrive, it rings as loud as a clarion call. Perhaps the involuntary falter in his step is noticeable, because Lupin shrugs in an effort to change gears, and shoots a brief smile at him. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

This time, Regulus’ stumble is so marked that Lupin catches him by the arm to steady him. A mere second’s brush of mittens against his sleeve, and Regulus is upright again. Undisclosed strength in that slender frame.

“Who says I want to talk to you about anything?” More things than one. Horrors and mysteries and shadows and darkness and monsters.

Lupin raises an eyebrow.

“All right… if I did want to say something – hypothetically speaking, of course, why would it be to you?”

“Clearly, James was your first choice.”

Regulus snorts, the sound carrying far upon the air – Barty is a fine teacher, after all. “Potter? Why would I want to speak to that arrogant prat?”

“You pay no attention to anyone in the meeting till Lily starts handing out the assignments, then suddenly, you want to chum up with James?”

“The Ravenclaw Tower,” Regulus says stiffly. “That was the attraction. I told you, I fancied a walk. I was almost sorted there.” It is only half a lie.

“I was nearly sorted there too,” Lupin says unexpectedly. “But I don’t want to walk around the place for the sake of what could have been. Even Ravenclaws don’t walk around it – the place is as dull as ditch water.”

“I like walking,” Regulus says obstinately.

Lupin turns, checking for revellers in the nooks and crannies of the turret. There are none – clearly the celebrations are still confined to common rooms and perhaps to the Great Hall. “You like flying better, though,” Lupin says thoughtfully, and flicks a mitted finger in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. “If exercise was all you wanted, you’d be fifty feet in the air on your Cleansweep.”

“In this weather? I’m not completely crazy.”

“But house team practises have been going on regardless.” Lupin breaks away, makes for a seat in the south wall, where they are partially sheltered from the driving wind. “I don’t exactly have all the time in the world – duty calls, you see – so if you’d like to start the discussion sometime soon, I’d be much obliged.”

“Sirius has got albizia,” Regulus blurts out.

Lupin blinks, minute snowflakes falling off his eyelashes. “Sirius has got many things, but I’m certain albizia isn’t one of them.”

“He – He can’t remember anything, or so he says.”

“Ah, _Amnesia_.”

“That’s what I said,” Regulus insists, “anaesthesia.”

Lupin’s lips twitch, and Regulus fails to bite back his scowl. “Never mind,” Lupin says hastily, “why do you think he’s forgetting things?”

Regulus sinks down on the stone seat, and Lupin shuffles obligingly to make room for him. “He told me so.”

“In as many words?”

“It was more to the effect of ‘my memory is completely gone’.”

“Ah.” Lupin pauses, considers, chewing on the inside of his lip. “He said something similar to me too,” he volunteers at last.

“And you didn’t think to tell me until now? You didn’t think it was important enough to deal with before this?”

Lupin does not rise to the goad. “When did he tell you he’s losing his memory?”

“This morning…well, afternoon, to be precise.” Regulus crushes his gloved hand into a fist so tight he knows the blood is drained away, but the pain does not recede. A futile pursuit; he unfurls his fingers and scrubs ineffectually at his hair. “By Salazar, it seems years ago, but it’s been just four hours…”

“Four hours…” Lupin tilts his head back, oblivious to the winds, now reaching a crescendo, driving snow into their partial shelter, tilts it back as far as it will go, so far it casts a sharp profile against the last vestiges of the dying light. The skin is as pale as wax – no paler, like the marble busts of long dead relatives that occupy the nooks and crannies of Father’s study, the eyes sharp, dark and viscous, puddles of fully melted brown. And surely, those are fever spots of red that burn angrily on the cheekbones, and the damp, purplish smudges under his eyes are due to more than just the savage cold. “And exactly what were you doing, sitting on this information for so long when you claim it’s an urgent matter?”

“I…I…”

And now, those bright, bright chocolate eyes are probing Regulus, stripping him, slicing through six layers of wool and leather like a laser through metal. Every last thought laid bare – even those hidden from his own conscious.

Fury – the barest hint of it – works like a miniature pump in Regulus’ ribs. A rush of blood carries him to his feet. “I don’t remember giving you permission to question me. I’ve come here – against my better judgement, mind you – to ask help for my brother. I don’t spend enough time with him to be able to unravel all this on my own, but you – and that Potter and Pettigrew, he’s always with you, and you know – you knew – and I’m supposed to stand here like some court of law and answer… answer…”

 Lupin is immobile, head still thrown back against the wind, waiting patiently as Regulus trails off, drained of both his energy and his temper. Limply, Regulus sits. Lupin does not move away, and an odd stab of gratefulness twists Regulus’ stomach.

“Sirius doesn’t always speak in words. Not to you, Regulus, and not to me.”

“How long have you known something was wrong?”

“With Sirius – or even my other friends – what’s wrong and what’s not wrong isn’t always clear cut.”

_What’s not wrong._ How very right Lupin is. What’s not wrong is a far throw from what is right. And life with his brother has, perhaps, never been completely right. Lupin’s shoulders heave in a sigh of infinite weariness. The wool of his jumper is frayed around the shoulders, exposing the flannel shirt beneath. For the first time, Regulus notices that the boy looks almost ill.

Something, something tiny and forgotten and shadowy nags at the back of Regulus’ mind.

“It’s been in the air for a while,” Regulus acknowledges, “but it’s got worse only now.”

Lupin frowns, not a gesture of anger, but of concern. “It’s not just a vague idea though, is it? You’ve got some concrete facts, some definite idea what this is going to lead to – and you’ve tried to top it already, haven’t you?” Raising one mitted fist to his mouth, Lupin blows on the material to warm it, then uncurls the fingers with the slight hiss. The knuckles are so stiff that the pop echoes loudly, even against the wind. “Sirius told you something – something he did, or something that he’s going to do…”

“ _Conjecture,_ ” Regulus wants to say, but keeps silent instead.

“Or, something that’s going to happen,” Lupin continues to investigate calmly, eyes fixed on Regulus’. The shadows beneath them grow heavier by the second. “Yes, definitely that. You spoke to someone – someone who knows about it – or will do something about it” –

“No – I mean, how can you say” –

“Who was it, Regulus? Crouch – or Rosier? No, no, that can’t be. Was it Snape?”

Regulus’ eyes widen despite his best efforts at self-control. “How – how do you know?” Lupin should not know, he _cannot_ know. Past master in the art of concealment, Regulus revels in the armour of inscrutability, the bits-and-pieces power games. At times too heavy a mantle for his shoulders, but nevertheless the preferred pastime amongst his family; Regulus is the best. Severus may have gained an edge over him earlier in the day – but Regulus will surely make it even again – but among strangers, his brother’s honourable – _honourably stupid_ – Gryffindor friends, he should be winning easily. Of course he wants to help Sirius, but there should be exhilaration on this chessboard.

But Lupin refuses to play the game.

No doubt his foolish fondness for books – Regulus conveniently ignores the fact that he shares this same foible – gives him much practise in the art of reading people.

And here lies the book of Regulus, Volume I, laid open for all to read.

“Try not to look so flabbergasted,” Lupin says kindly, though his voice roughens at the edges, crumbling and vanishing before the phrases are quite complete. “The shock will wear off after some time.”

“How – how did you guess?”

“I didn’t. Your face is quite mobile – rather like Sirius’. You aren’t him, of course, but there are resemblances when you’re both trying to hide information.”

“Bloody genetricks.”

Lupin chuckles. “Now that all is revealed, can you actually tell me what you know, and what you want me to do about it? I’m getting a bit tired.” He looks it, with dampness spreading along his brow and hairline, the purple smudges wandering down into his cheeks, at variance with the fever-spots burning ever brighter against the pale skin.

Not almost ill. Definitely ill. Warning bells begin to chime, replacing the nagging at the back of Regulus’ mind. He tries to quiet them, does not quite succeed, and resorts to ignoring them. “Sirius told me that something happened, that day in the corridor?”

Lupin stiffens.

“So you remember it. I’m unsurprised you do, given the contents of our conversation,” Regulus says casually.

Lupin does not rise to the bait. “And what did Sirius say exactly?”

“He said he can’t remember what happened, but he thinks Severus is going to do something.”

“To Sirius?”

Regulus does not dare hesitate. “Yes, or – or to his friends.”

The colour drains from Lupin’s cheeks. He closes his eyes, shielding them with his hand as though from the light, though twilight has now truly fallen, and the first slivers of the full moon will be visible in less than an hour’s time. “When?”

“Tonight” –

“Are you sure” –

“ _Yes._ Severus has got some potion ready, and he’s asked me to go along with him to the Whomping Willow – he thinks it’s going to happen there” – The shadows in his mind are clearing, taking strange and horrifying shape. “He says the potion can freeze the branches” –

Regulus stops; Lupin has slumped forward, face hidden in his shoulder. “No,” Lupin mutters, words thick and blurred through cloth, “it can’t be – not… not the Willow” – But it is the Willow. The Whomping Willow, with its flailing, writhing limbs, crushing and twisting in the wild, wild winter sleet, the full moon shining down, laying bare the grounds…

The full moon…

_The moon and the Willow…_

The shadows dissipate and the monster rears high. “You,” Regulus says, voice and stiff and choked and bubbly all at once, _“you are the werewolf.”_

Lupin raises his head, chocolate eyes liquid with terror, every feature drawn with mortification and misery; the stamp of confirmation of all Regulus has imagined these last five days.

And then Regulus turns, and runs.

 

_To be continued…_


	11. Proposals And Propositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have not got construction,” Regulus says, offended, and opening his eyes, tries to sit up.

_He mourns that day so soon has glided by,_

_E’en like the passage of an angel tear_

    - John Keats, _To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent._

 

Slivers of light cut through the thick gloom of the corridor as easily as a silver knife slides through butter. Overhead on the tower tops, around the turrets and through the battlements, the wind picks up, fast and furious, maddening with all the rage of an Arctic monster, twisting and writhing, shrieks and moans torn from its tortured throat and hung to dry upon the air. Here on the ground floor, the sounds of the storm are muffled to dim echoes, ponderous thuds and booms that penetrate thinly through the stone and slate. But still the chill strikes deep, a thousand icy arrows lancing against her skin.

Lily leans her head against the cold stone and closes her eyes.

Christmas day, and nothing to show for it. The first year, Christmas at Hogwarts was magic beyond all magic. The twelve towering trees in the Great Hall, the bells, the ribbons, the streams of live fairies, singing and dancing suits of armour, hundreds of floating candles – the light, the warmth, it had overwhelmed her then, and there are still moments when its memory assaults her unasked. And over it all lay the wonderful and intangible enchantment of this time shared with friends.

And each year, she watched while the decorations grew larger, the colours grew brighter, and the world outside their castle walls grew darker and darker. Seventh year. Final year. Eight months more of cocooning, snatched moments in this cradle of false security, and then she will fly into battle. There will be no more innocent Christmases. There are whispers already amongst the senior students. Tight-knit, slow moving circles of girls and boys, Slytherins and Ravenclaws mostly, but now with the numbers of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs increasing. Most are talented, all are capable. Trouble is brewing, Lily is sure of this, trouble as deep and thick as the lowering skies outside. And Christmas, with its copious amounts of mulled mead and Butterbeer, is ripe for attacks and altercations.

She has been preparing for it, winding up like a clock, tighter and tighter until the thread hangs taut, but there is nothing here.

No trace of human argument in the creaks and groans of the old castle, no agitation or hurry in the pounding of the wind, although it does sound like footsteps on occasion –

Lily frowns, turning her head, eyes still closed. She can hear it now, close at hand; careful, measured steps that are indeed footfalls –

She straightens, up and away from the pillar, and opens her eyes.

He stands before her, hazel eyes glowing merrily behind the glasses, hair spiking at all odd angles, a lanky figure despite the bulk of three woollen overcoats thrown up in sharp relief against the wall, the shadows flickering in the feeble light of the single lamp floating above them.

Her lips threaten to pull away the ends of her mouth. Forcibly, she bites down. “Gave Gareth the slip, then, Potter?”

He shrugs, that cheeky one-shouldered gesture acquired from Lupin. “He’s sadly resistant to my charms.”

“Thought you’d come here and try your luck with me, eh?”

“Are you adequately susceptible?”

“I’ll try my best.”

He grin now, full-on and brighter than a thousand candles. “You do me an honour, Evans.”

Lily sags back against the pillar, feeling the stone grating on the fabric of her coat. “It’s not an invitation to join you in battle, is it?”

A strange look passes over his face, a mixture of anxiety and anger and regret, but it is a look so sudden and fleeting she thinks she may have imagined it. “A battle of sorts,” he admits after a moment. “I did hear something up there in the Astronomy Tower” –

“That’s Remus and Regulus, isn’t it? I didn’t hear anything” –

“No, you wouldn’t, the walls are too thick here.”

“Do you think they need help?”

James pauses, teeth biting down on his lower lip, eyes drifting fractionally. “No,” he says at last, “I think they can manage their own battles.” He is right, as he almost always is. Strange, how she can read this man now, map him as spring studies budding trees, peeling back the layers of boyish roughness to reveal the sweet, strong kernel.

Lily turns, glances out through the deep slit windows in the corridor walls. Winter mists are rolling down, shimmering like veils in the dying light. The light is lowering, milky white and ghostly, laying naked the twisted and leafless trees in the foreground. “Have you decided how you’re going to fight?” She asks when her eyes are grown tired of staring.

He does not move. Clearly, he has been anticipating this question. “I don’t have concrete plans yet. An Auror, maybe” –

“No Quidditch, then?”

“Waste,” he replies briefly, and she agrees. “There are – some things – I’d have to do, with Padfoot, and well – with Moony, mainly, but otherwise, to actually fight…” He tucks his hand in his pocket. “What about you?” He asks, and suddenly, his hazel gaze sharpens. “What will you do?”

She knows, and he knows, that she will fight too. _But how? But how?_ The inadequacy of a thousand days spent over textbook in classes, the gaping ignorance of magical society, that curse of her Muggle heritage that all the hard work and intelligence in the world cannot overcome, it presses down on her shoulders with an elephantine weight.

But there is something she has been thinking about for a year now. “I thought,” she begins, still hesitant to voice her thoughts aloud, “I thought, if you know what you’re going to do, that I might join you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Auror training?”

“Maybe. Or perhaps the Charms department. But I’m thinking of something different. You’ll be joining the resistance, won’t you? And I thought – I thought I’d like to join one with you.”

“Ah.” James’ eyes are still fixed on hers, but his shoulders relax. “Now that’s what I call an honour, Evans.” He smiles, a brilliant flash of white teeth in the dusky light. “And while we’re on the subject, you can do me another honour, if you like.”

“Oh?”

He digs around in his pocket for a moment, then draws out a box. Tiny, blue velvet, with a satin lining. He moves closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his muffler, the musk and mothballs and Quidditch Quaffle leather from his jacket.

A jerk of the clasp, and the lid flies open.

“Oh, James!”

Nestled in the cushion is a ring. A tiny, twisted silver thread, set with one crimson garnet.

James stands, broad shoulders very straight, and meets her gaze squarely. “Lily Evans, will you marry me?”

For an instant, she thinks she should say something. An inkling of the love, the fear, the exhilaration. _“_ Arghgrghyr” – 

James blinks.

“Of course I will,” says Lily.

 

* * *

Regulus Arcturus Black has mastered the art of flying without a broom.

That is his second thought.

The first thought is that he is dead. Very, very extremely dead. Here lies the last of the Blacks, tatty woollen jumper for his shroud, and chilly hard stone for his headstone. What was death but pain – and this was pain, hurt, far beyond anything he could have ever envisioned. Electricity, shock, gushing in streams up his arms, down his legs; and his heart, torn right out of his body, replaced with a cannon, pounding out its terrible metal at regular intervals.

And beyond it all, there was the cold, the searing, gripping fingers of the wind.

Naturally; corpses are cold.

“You’re not a corpse, you know,” a deep voice tells him from somewhere very far above.

Of course he is a corpse. He flew off the top of the Astronomy Tower, and now he is dead.

“You didn’t fly off the top of the Tower. You ran down the staircase. We aren’t even at the bottom yet, you just reached the first landing and tripped.”

Lies. Falsehoods. Mere immortals cannot hope to deceive him with such puny and fruitless untruths –

“Concussion,” the deep voice murmurs. Closer now, and gentler, warm breath fanning lightly over his cheeks.

“I have not got construction,” Regulus says, offended, and opening his eyes, tries to sit up.

It is a mistake.

If he had not died before, he is surely dying now, heralded on his way by the sixteen inch twin barrels pounding their way through the innermost recesses of his brain. A pity too, that his eyes have given up working, that his last view of this world should be of an interminable white veil, drifting down and obscuring his sight, inch by inch.

“That’s the snow – you’re looking out of the landing window.” And there it is again, that deep, calm and beautiful voice.

It chuckles lightly. “Thank you for the compliment. But do stop gabbling – it’ll hurt your head even more.” A pause, a rustle, and then something slides slowly over his neck – a scarf, liquid silk, the softest gossamer. “Try not to turn your head at once. Take your time, and open your eyes slowly.”

Regulus heeds the advice on both counts. His silence lasts all of a minute before he is recovered enough to lean his back tiredly against the curving stone wall of the Tower, and blink open his eyes warily. There is no snow obscuring his vision now, and the scenery is improved even further when Lupin’s head, swathed in knitted hat and muffler looms up a few feet from his face.

Regulus’ heart stops.

_Lupin._

_The werewolf._

“You – the moonrise – one hour – are you going… you have to come” –

He can run for help.

He cannot even move.

He can shout for help.

He did – Potter, Stebbins, Evans, all within hearing distance.

Nobody came. None will come.

Lupin raises an eyebrow, and Regulus falls silent in spite of himself. “It’s a late moonrise tonight,” Lupin says quietly. “There’s about two hours more to go. I won’t hurt you,” he adds, unnecessarily. A slight wobbling of the lips, he turns his head to hide it. “I’ve never hurt anybody…”

Regulus smiles bitterly. “No. I did a pretty good job of hurting myself, though, didn’t I?”

A tug at the seams of his trousers, and they come apart with a ripping noise that echoes off the walls. The skin of his knees and thighs are lacerated, blood dripping in minute streams down his legs, pooling in the creases and wrinkles of the fabric, turning a dull burgundy where they mix with the dirt accumulated by his fall. Regulus stares dully at a particularly stubborn trail of drops making their down the side of his right thigh onto the stone.

And then it wells up in his stomach, the churning, boiling maelstrom of nausea, the sickening throbbing threnody of pain at his temples. And far worse than these is the sudden quickening of his heartbeat, the pain of weakening pistons pumping at full speed under half the power, the icy, grasping wrist that ties his lungs and ribs in a knot and squeezes them to pulp.

Regulus gasps, and Lupin drops to his knees beside him. A warm hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling every heaving breath as he fights for oxygen.

The brown of Lupin’s irises darken and solidify. “You’re sick,” he says, voice still low, now roughened with concern.

“So are you,” Regulus says without thinking, but does not regret the words. The red in Lupin’s cheeks is burning more brilliantly than ever, the smudges under his eyes deepening almost to a black. Yet here he is, the boy who is a fair sight more unwell than Regulus, and yet the only one observant enough to discern the discomfort of the other.

“I might sick up a little,” Regulus admits.

Lupin nods. “That’s the concussion.”

“I told you,” Regulus says heatedly, “I do not have contractions!”

“Concussion,” Lupin says loudly. “Contractions are usually the part of pregnant women.”

“Oh to hell with it all,” Regulus mumbles, thoroughly tired now, “contraption and analgesia and the rest of it.”

“How long have you been ill?” Lupin asks, tones once more measured. “From the look of you, it’s been a fair while.”

Regulus grits his teeth, draws in a hissing and painful breath. “There’s… nothing… wrong.”

“You’re a disgraceful liar,” Lupin says coolly.

“A few months. I’m not sure when it started. Been there in part as long as I can remember, anyway.”

“Is it always the heart?”

“Mostly. Never been so – so bad, though. Usually just a flutter, or a tightening of the ribs.”

Lupin eyes him speculatively. “Out of breath after climbing half a flight of stairs. But never on a broom, I have noticed.” An almost imperceptible twist of his wrist, and his wand appears in his hand. Another slight flick, and the shutters on the window slide closed, cutting off the worst of the snow now driving almost parallel to ground far below, and the shearing the biting edge off the wind.

“Brooms are different. Never so difficult in the air as on the ground.”

“As I have been told many times before by James. Not sure I still believe him, though.”

“Potter has the brains of a troll, but his Quaffle is through the hoop on this one.”

“Did you pick up the art of insulting your enemies from Severus Snape?” Lupin reaches forward, slowly unwinds the silk scarf that is supporting Regulus’ head and neck, and begins to dab at the wounds on his legs, the silver sheen of the fabric turning a pale pink as it absorbs the blood.

“No.” Regulus leans back, lets his head flop against the window sill. “I prefer to cultivate the art of insulting myself.”

“Insulting yourself, eh?”

Regulus scowls, perhaps more harshly than he intends. “I mean, I prefer to practise insulting by myself” –

“Oh, so you’re against insulting in groups, are you?”

“Shut up, Lupin.”

Lupin chuckles again, another choking deep throated laugh, but even that short sound is rich, warmer by far now that Regulus’ immediate health is no longer a pressing concern. _Concern._ It is rather touching, this concern. Regulus cannot remember when last anyone was concerned about him, about his wellbeing. Mother perhaps, before the inevitable drapes of hereditary insanity began to shut off her life, or Father, in the early years when the sensation of having two newborn sons was novel enough to merit kindness rather than indifference. Kreacher, still looking out for him as best as he can. 

Or Sirius.

Sirius, in his inconsistent, stubborn manner, bearing the brunt of his mother’s rages, his Father’s orders, insouciantly drawing the wrath of the mighties away from Regulus, hiding him under wings of pride and savagery.

“Talking out loud isn’t the best surety of discretion,” Lupin says mildly.

“Wasn’t talking, precisely. Mumbling, more like.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the facts about werewolf hearing.” Lupin picks up his wand, trails it over the shallow cuts on Regulus’ thighs, ignoring his winces, watching as they smoke, and then knit together, smooth and raw pink at the middle, slightly serrated at the edges. “The scars will fade over a few weeks. Try not to scratch.”

The skin is tight and tender under Regulus’ exploring touch. “You’re an accomplished healer.”

“I have to be,” Lupin says quietly. “At least, to take the pain off the smaller cuts and bruises on the morning after transformations.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d even notice such tiny bruises the morning after trying to gnaw your arms and legs off your torso.”

For an infinitesimal moment, Lupin’s brows rise, eyes widening – shock, perhaps, or surprise, before smoothing out again. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But – but over the years, I’ve found any lessening of the pain is something to be thankful for. And if I can do it before Madam Pomfrey comes, so much the better.”

Lupin is lying. Lying through his teeth and through those bright, bright chocolate eyes. A fine liar, unlike Regulus. But Regulus has not lived amongst the diplomatic, the circumspect – in fact, the best of liars in the country – to not recognise a liar when he sees one.

He ignores it, and holds Lupin’s gaze instead.

“I can help your legs, but I can’t do anything about your heart or the fatigue. Why didn’t you tell somebody about it? Madam Pomfrey” –

Regulus snorts – his best attempt at contempt and disbelief for the past six years. “I’ll bet you all the contents of my not-inconsiderable vault at Gringrotts that there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.”

“Or Sirius.”

“Ah.”

“Ah,” Lupin agrees softly. “That’s what I thought.”

“He’s ill himself,” Regulus says bitterly. “Or mad, what’s the difference, anyway? There’s enough on his shiny Gryffindor plate without having to deal with me. He’d go even madder, rushing round the world looking for Healers, turning up the most obscure potions and runes, dragging me through the mill. I don’t think I could stand it. I’d rather die in peace” –

Lupin’s face drains of blood.

Regulus breaks off, heart thrumming up to a staccato once more. “By Salazar – I – I didn’t think” –

“That’s not an uncommon reaction,” Lupin says, recovering composure with some difficulty. “Most people lose their faculties of reason – at least temporarily – when knowingly faced with werewolves, even in human form. You didn’t – at least, not in the usual way.”

“The power of flight would have been nice,” Regulus says mournfully.

Lupin’s mouth twists upwards. “You’re good enough on a broom to make it unnecessary. But yes, I’ve been through much worse. Humans – and part-humans – can stand, survive, and eve thrive through much more than we can ever think possible. And it hasn’t stopped. Not for me, anyway.”

Regulus closes his eyes, scrubs a hand through his hair, now damp with a combination of sleet and sweat. “You’re ill, too – anyone can see that. But you’re still coherent…”

“The closer it gets to moonrise, the more wolfish symptoms I develop. A late moonrise alleviates some of them.” A twitch of the lips, a clenching of the fist. “Funny; that my last Christmas at Hogwarts should be a full moon. But a late rise – small mercies, I suppose.” Lupin pockets his wand, tugs his hat down over his hair, closes his eyes, as though steeling himself for some endeavour. “You’re better, now. Duty’s over.”

Duty was over. Duties were not over.

“Go on, then. Leave.” Lupin cracks open his eyelids, seemingly with great difficulty, minutely examines three white spots on his fingernail. “You’ll need time… to tell your housemates, to tell Dumbledore you know…”

A year ago, Regulus would have done so without a second thought.

Regulus grunts, tucks his coat securely around him, pulls up the torn cloth around his newly mended legs. “I’m going to do no such thing. I have proposition instead. I’m going to ask all the questions I want, and you’re going to answer them all.”

He watches, scarcely breathing, ignoring the twinges in his ribs as despair and fear drain from Lupin’s eyes and flabbergasted gratitude takes their place.

At last, Lupin settles next to Regulus, so close that their shoulders touch, back supported comfortably against the wall. “What do you want to know?” Lupin asks.

 

_To be continued…_


	12. The Patron Saint Of Werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whisper in the right ear, a note on the right desk, and all that Remus was, all that he could ever be, would be turned into dust.

_Did he smile his work to see?_

_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_

_-_ William Blake _, The Tyger_

 

Red.

Red, the colour of blood.

Red, the colour of fighting, of swords clashing, gleaming, slicing, red the colour of pennants soaked in enemy blood, red the colour of grass and leaves lying dead on battlefields.

Red, scarlet, crimson. Pillows, blankets, fabric – thick, thin, heated, stuffed.

Sirius buries his nose in cloth wet with salt and anguish and dreams.

But these are no dreams, for he knows these voices well. Memories, then, or feelings once felt, far, far away, many moons ago. Rage, like volcanos erupting inside him. Sharp-edged wrath burning brighter than lava, fingers, hooking around black collars, sallow skin, meeting eyes black and thick with the sludge of hatred. And voices, chalk dragged across gravel, silver knives splitting apart sound, crushing people into dust – 

_You can see exactly how I look after my friends –_

Sweating, Sirius sits up abruptly.

 

* * *

 

It is Christmas night of the year nineteen hundred and seventy seven, and Regulus Black is sitting next to a werewolf.

The werewolf in question looks the type to be more at home in a library than in the woods, or forests or lakes, or wherever werewolves are generally to be found – Morgorovsky’s _Canine or Vulpine_ was infuriatingly silent on that topic – but a real-life genuine werewolf all the same. At this moment there is a distinct lack of the classical signs denoted in chapter three – _How to Identify a Werewolf:_ the tufted tail, the snout, the pupils, the hairy knuckles, the coral pink tongue.

This werewolf does have a coral pink tongue, but that, Regulus is certain, is absolutely beside the point.

“What are you thinking?” The werewolf asks, when Regulus has been silent for the best part of ten minutes.

“I am thinking,” Regulus says slowly, “how extraordinarily lucky I am.”

Remus smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners, liquid chocolate warming, melting, overflowing. “Do you often ponder on your luck?”

“More frequently than you’d think. And of course, if I ever forget, Barty or Evan are always around to remind me.”

“Severus Snape isn’t your caring and nurturing friend, then?”

“No. He’s the silent, stewing, broody type.”

Remus nods. “That explains much.”

Severus Snape is a puzzle, a contradiction, a game, and Regulus does a roaring trade in games of cat and mouse and hide and seek. It has been ever so, since his first steps across the nursery floor, chubby hands gripping the staircase railing, head thrust through balusters, looking, listening, with eyes and mind and heart at words flung across the house, arguments at the dining table, points and debates sewn together with extreme care and torn apart with as much finesse again.

But Severus is a conundrum for another time, for here lies a greater mystery.

“Evans must have told you all about Severus, I expect.”

“Hardly anything. She – she’s not one to live in the past. Likes to get on and do things.”

“A good match for Potter, then.” Potter, for all his outward bluster, moves with an inward grace that few can match, quietly, quickly, smoothly. “I thought you’d have wanted to go and meet them,” Regulus adds, “Spend time with your friends before the moon rises.”

“Oh no,” Remus says hastily, “They’re – er – busy – probably – well, definitely. James did say he’s got a few things to talk about with Lily.”

They must be busy indeed, for neither answered his cries for help when he ran away in his moment of madness. He wishes he could run still, somewhere warmer, his legs twitching with dormant energy. Regulus’ skin itches too, where the trousers are torn, where the flesh comes into direct contact with the serrated surface of the stone. He reaches underneath his knees, brings up a handful of parchment that has evidently fallen from his pockets during his run. Of course – the letters to Mother, potions recipes, and that rather embarrassing note he had scribbled in the library –

Remus has picked up one of the parchments too. _“Inasmuchaswhich,”_ he reads aloud, _“Who is the Fiercer Animal – the Heffalump, or the Spotted and Herbaceous Backson?”_ He looks down at Regulus and smiles, tired eyes lightening, wrinkles momentarily smoothed away. “You read Winnie-the-Pooh?”

“Yes,” Regulus answers tersely. “Only occasionally.”

“Well?” Remus asks after a pause. “Who is?”

“Who is what?”

Remus dons the expression of a saint. “Who is the Fiercer Animal?”

_Oh._ “The Backson,” Regulus says decidedly, “But only Herbaceous.”

“I see.” Remus hands the parchment back to Regulus, who stuffs it away in his pocket with an involuntary scowl. “Though my vote, personally, is for the Jagular.”

“I’ll keep that in mind should I ever have the ill luck to come across one,” Regulus replies dryly. “And still on the subject of luck, I doubt few in this country have ever had the good fortune to have a conversation with a werewolf.”

“All most everybody at Hogwarts has,” Remus points out mildly. “Mostly unwittingly.”

“Of course.” There are few who would be able to keep their counsel if they knew they were talking to a werewolf. Of these, the majority would probably be curious first-years, fresh and eager, youth overpowering fear and prudence. Most of the senior students would run for wands and curses. And still others who would opt for a danger far worse than a gash to the nose or arms – a firecall to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Regulus sighs, leans back against wall, breathes in, deeply, quietly, carefully. His breath comes easier now, his heart less an overworked engine, pain reducing, circulation regaining normality. “You haven’t answered. my questions yet,” he prompts Remus.

“You haven’t asked me any,” Remus answers evenly.

“That’s your fault,” Regulus says. “You’re a smooth operator, Remus. Turn the attention away from yourself by asking the other party well placed questions, eh?” He watches, pulse thrumming with secret delight as Remus blushes, cheeks darkening, hollows filling with cream and peaches, eyes shuttering, lips moving soundly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words.”

Remus exhales. “You needn’t sound so smug about it,” he observes.

“Didn’t think I’d catch on to your trick, did you?”

“I thought you would think I hadn’t caught on to your catching on to my trick.”

“Hah. I thought you wouldn’t think that I hadn’t caught on to your thinking that I hadn’t caught – wait, no – I thought you wouldn’t think – oh, bollocks!”

“Well done. See – easier done than said. Didn’t catch on that time till you were well away, did you?”

“I’m not a lightweight,” Regulus says sharply.

“Never thought you were,” Remus says easily. “Most people won’t catch on at all. Perhaps you think it’s a trick – Jude knows Peter says I’ve got a bag of excuses and gimmicks all lined up to deflect people’s attention, but I don’t think they are tricks, really. Or maybe they were, starting out, but I’ve been living with them for so long they’ve ceased to be tricks. They’ve become genuine patterns of conversation, now.”

Regulus knows. He knows better than Remus would ever think he knows, because Regulus has perfected the art of making excuses. To himself and to others. “Does it work? The tricks?”

A twist of the lips. “You’ve heard, no doubt, about my badly behaved rabbit who requires my presence at home regularly?”

Regulus stares. “That was not true?”

The twist widens out into a cheeky grin. “James can be proud of his rumour mongering skills.”

“I’ve learnt something there. The stupidest excuses are the best ones.” Following that line of inquiry, he wonders if the stupidest questions are also the best ones. A thousand questions, a million answers, all covering a billion stories. Obvious and hurtful, laying bare the heart and mind to speculation, to analysis by strangers, a scrutiny both intimate and uncomfortable.

Remus is watching him. Regulus likes to watch people too, tucked away in corners, eyes following the rise and fall of their breathing, the lilt and cadence of their shouts and whispers. But for Remus, watching is the key to survival. Not as a werewolf stalks his prey, but the quiet, unceasing vigil of a priest at prayer or a soldier over the sands of his country. Warriors of a kind, alert to every sort of danger, reading signs, interpreting thoughts, intents, and in a desperate bid to survive, delving deeper and deeper into a rapidly diminishing bag of solutions.

Would Remus answer honestly, if he should spill the fountain of questions bubbling away inside him? Or this – this game – they play, dancing around the edges, all these thing unsaid… Regulus decides to take a risk. “How were you turned? Who bit you?”

There is no immediate reaction from Remus. No recoil, not even a shift of the woollen elbow pressed against his side. “You like to start at the beginning, don’t you? Very methodical… it’s a common question,” he adds, evidently noticing Regulus wrinkling his nose. “I was four – almost five. He is one of those who live in the shadows.”

Remus pauses, lips curving in a graceful smile when he notes Regulus’ expression of rapt concentration. “I don’t know who he is – or even if there are more than one of them. But I think there’s only one, so far. All I know is that Dad angered a werewolf when he used to work for the Ministry, and so the man came after me.”

“Your father won’t tell you who it is?”

“He is about as silent as the grave on that count.”

Young. So young. “You – you’d have been at home, wouldn’t you? How could he find you, if he was feral?”

“I was asleep – the windows were closed, but he opened them and got in. It was – painful. I didn’t know what death was, but after that –

“Any other would have died.”

“I died,” Remus whispers. “I died a million times every day.”

Death ends life. Some say there is life beyond death, but surely, surely, there is also death beyond life.  “Still?” Regulus asks. “Do you die still?”

“Not as often.” Remus smiles wanly, and when he turns to look at Regulus, it is like trying to look into deep, churning arctic waters. “I’ve chosen to live. That makes a difference.”

“Hogwarts would have helped, I suppose?”

“More than anything else. I owe Dumbledore a debt of gratitude – my mother’s a Muggle, but she was prepared to teach me at home, she learned all the magical theory, but it wasn’t till Dumbledore came home and spoke to my parents and told them that there was a place for me here.” Remus smiles, an inward secret sort of smile that makes Regulus’ heart clench painfully. “You can imagine what a difference it made… friends, Regulus. For the first time in my life since infancy, for the very first time that could remember, I had friends. Imagine that – the best friends I could ever ask for…”

_Best friends._ Regulus knows what that feels like. It is all that is tangible – human shaped hollows in the mattress beside him, filled with comfortable fiery warmth, grey eyes twinkling across the breakfast table, tongues wagging, witty or sharp as the occasion demanded, brisk and breathless races across the crowded winding streets of Diagon Alley, weaving in and out of Zonko’s and Quality Quidditch, and faces buried nostril deep in towering three-scoop cones at Florean’s. And equally, it is all that cannot be touched, but lives only in his mind, brought back to be dwelled on again and again – quick, slight movements of hands and arms, letters that stopped coming, gazes carefully avoided, voices, phrases, emptied of all expression.

“Best friends don’t last,” Regulus says, and conviction rings harshly in his tones. “People are bastards, Remus. Even the people you trust. Especially the people you trust.”

Remus’ face shuts down. “I’ll decide that for myself, thank you.”

Regulus snorts. It is a poor effort. “Don’t keep it too long. One day you’ll wake up and find that you haven’t woken up at all, and your best friend is responsible.”

“I’ve come closer to it than you think.” Remus’ voice is soft, so quiet that Regulus has to lean forward, shoulder brushing against rough cloth. “They took me to St Mungo’s the night I was bitten. The next morning, the Healer in charge told my mother that she should allow them to put me down.” He laughs, and it is the most horrible sound Regulus has ever heard. “Put me down – as though I was a rabid dog, or a rat carrying plague.”

But now the laws have changed. Amended – for the better, as Uncle Cygnus constantly says at family dinners – and Healers and Mediwitches can euthanize newly turned werewolves if no family turns up to claim them within twelve hours.

A nice, clinical elimination.

If Remus would wish anyone to be eliminated, it would surely be this werewolf. And that brings forth a new question. “If he was feral, this werewolf, how did he unlock the windows? If he couldn’t use magic” –

“He wasn’t completely feral. Fully possessed of all faculties, and a considerable degree of acting skills… he had a wand, he can obviously do at least basic magic. I’ve learned a little bit about him, these past few months. You see, I wasn’t his sole victim. He was silent, off the radar for a long time, but he’s back now. He’s begun to hunt again.”

“A rogue werewolf, out for fresh meat?”

“You make it sound like a ha’penny horror story. But this isn’t a novel, or an old wives’ tale. There’s method to his madness this time. He watches, he stalks, and then he pounces. And always, it’s those he has grudges against – or the young, the defenceless, the Muggles.”

There is a gleam in Remus’ eyes. Regulus has seen it before, that sharp edged silvery glint of steely focus and deadly precision. And as that glimmer intensifies, so does the familiar weariness that envelopes Regulus completely. He groans, buries his head in his hands. “You’re going to do some mad Gryffindor thing, aren’t you? You’re going to find him and stop him. What is this – the hunter, hunted? Maybe you should ask Sirius along on this expedition. He likes playing at detective.”

“What about you?” Remus counters swiftly. “You like playing detectives too, don’t you, Regulus?” His gaze, calm and catlike, does not waver when Regulus’ tongue darts out to lick his suddenly dry lips. “But no – it’s not just a game of Aurors or Hitwizards with you, is it? You go straight for the jugular – the brain, the mind. Those little tricks – nothing ever gets past you, does it?”

On the contrary, quite a lot gets past him. It is fleeing by now, quickening every time he makes a grab at it. Grimly, he holds on to his layer of calm. “You make me out to be some… mind-manipulator – or a Legilimens” –

Remus’ lips thin. “I’m not too sure that you are not, Regulus.”

“On the other hand, you do seem sure of catching this werewolf.”

“Oh, I’ll find him all right,” Remus says, and the conviction in his voice makes Regulus shiver. “All the better for me, all the worse for him. But that – oh, that’s all in good time. Before that, there’s something much more urgent. All those he’s hurt till now – all those children… I have to find them, see to their needs” –

“You can’t,” Regulus says, fighting desperately to keep his voice from cracking. “Sheltering unregistered werewolves is a crime.”

Remus smiles. “And who is going to stop me?”

_I can. I will._

A whisper in the right ear, a note on the right desk, and all that Remus was, all that he could ever be, would be turned into dust.

 But Regulus will not stop him. Regulus cannot stop him, and Remus knows that he cannot do so, because Sirius would already have considered it, and if Sirius cannot stop him, nobody can. And beneath the murky waters that these muddled thoughts create, there is a softly burgeoning feeling of tenderness, of sympathy and friendship that insists on growing despite his best efforts to crush it.

 

* * *

 

When Regulus feels well enough to stand, they make their way back to the Prefects’ room. The journey is uncomfortable, his ribs aching and his legs quivering like jelly beneath him. He does not speak, to ask for rest – he cannot speak – so he presses his lips firmly together instead, and sucks in deep painful draughts of air. This is no moment for weakness; not now when Sirius is shattered like glass on cement, when the frail thread of Remus’ life hangs in the balance. He knows how to weather these storms; like Father and Uncle Cygnus, who come and go from their silent houses with compressed lips and squinted eyes, like Evan, who hides his insecurities in a shroud of cynicism, and Severus, who claps down that dreaded blank veil over his mind.

But in the end, his stoicism is all to waste. One look at his face, and Remus stops, most abruptly, just behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. “Rest,” he says, and carefully deposits Regulus at the foot of the statue. Remus is red and sweating too, dampness gathering in streams at his collar and cuffs. He wipes it away with the end of his scarf, huffs out his breath in little frozen puffs, and closes his eyes.

Strange, Regulus thinks idly, dragging his fingers over his tender ribs, how strength changes. Morph, or twist, from one form to another – some would call Remus frail, and ill, but still, it took no small measure of courage to acknowledge that weakness, to face each day with rapidly diminishing reserves of strength.

“I am afraid I have tired you out too much,” Remus says after a moment, peering down at Regulus with an odd smile on his lips.

“It’s a short journey, Remus. And – and you look dreadfully worn out yourself.”

Remus shrugs. “Twenty minutes to moonrise. There is time yet” –

“Not enough,” Regulus says, heart now beginning to quicken again with the faint stirrings of dread. He licks his lips, wishing they would not dry out so soon.  “Twenty minutes – I didn’t think we’d run out of time so fast” – A thousand curses, he thinks to himself. A thousand, nay, million curses on his silly curiosity – the sheer thrill of an interview with a werewolf.

Remus laughs quietly. “I’ve been living on borrowed time for the past twelve years, Regulus. And there is a slim chance that Snape cannot get past the Willow at all. Only Wor – well, almost nobody has got through since Davey Gudgeon” –

“He’ll get through all right,” Regulus says with vicious certainty. “There’s somewhere else, surely, where you can transform – doesn’t the Shack have an outlet into Hogsmeade? There are caves, isolated crevices in the rock, well beyond the city limits” –

An impatient shake of Remus’ head. “The exits are walled up – magically. I can’t blast my way through – I’ve tried enough times” –

“Disapparate out then. Out of the grounds” –

“The grounds are warded against Apparition. Dumbledore” –

“Surely there’s some place in this benighted castle that has weaker wards… or – some passage out” –

“There were,” Remus says, and Regulus flinches at the despair in his voice. “There were seven passages out to Hogsmeade. But now – but now, they’re blocked – each one of them. Warded and sealed.” He drops his head and stares at his hands, and Regulus stares too, as Remus picks at stray strands of wool across his palms with knitted fingers. “If only we still had the map” –

“I’ll stop him,” Regulus mutters, words tripping around his swollen tongue, when he can bear the hot, thick silence no more. Strange, that the air should so compress his chest and make him sweat, even as his fingers and toes curl up and freeze.

“You must,” Remus says quietly. He is watching Regulus now, sagging against Gregory, who scowls and bats at Remus’ hat with his stone wand. The wells of darkness beneath his eyes seem larger now, widening by the second – surely, any moment now they will swallow up every last bit of the brightness in that brown gaze. And through the wool of his jersey and socks, a light smattering of gold hair begins to sprout. “I have to leave you now,” Remus says, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Please – please, find James, or Lily, and tell them – tell them” –

Regulus nods, unable to tear his eyes from Remus’ stricken gaze. He gulps in his turn, clenching his fists, swallowing down the bile that rises in his gut, the suffocating tightness beneath his breastbone. “I’ll stop him,” he promises quietly.

 

* * *

 

Regulus finds Sirius before he spots either Potter or Evans. Sirius skids into the Great Hall, boots slippery on the cold stone, eyes blown wide with alarm. “Regulus” – he clutches his brother around both shoulders, fingers tight with desperation, and Regulus tightens his jaw at the sheer strength in that grip.

Sirius is shivering, and he can barely make out his words around his chattering teeth. “Regulus – oh, Regulus – I’ve done… I’ve done” –

“I know exactly what you’ve done,” Regulus says, lowly and savagely, and then, lifting his arm with deliberate precision, slaps Sirius squarely across the face.

For ten eternal seconds, he watches as Sirius stands before him, reddening face turned away, arms hanging limply at his sides, trying to recover himself. Regulus tries to recover himself too – tries and fails as seething, churning waves of rage pulse in and out of his body, leaving him exhausted, furious and drowning in a swamp of muddy despair.

For six further seconds he gives Sirius time to control his limbs and turn around, and for another minute he simply stares at his brother.

“Come,” he says at last, gripping Sirius’ coat sleeve and propelling him forward, “we are going to find Potter and Evans and amend this matter.”

They have not slipped open the heavy doors and gone twenty paces into the cruel night air towards the Willow when the memory of the morning’s talk with Sirius assaults his mind. He has delivered on his promise to himself today – but this goes deeper, far far beyond damage control.

_Patron saints for nutters –_

Regulus snorts. So such is the course of his life. But no, he thinks, ignoring Sirius’ ragged breathing as they stumble within sight of the dreaded flailing branches, no – this is even better – for by some strange and unexpected twist, he is also now the patron saint of werewolves.

 

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Spotted and Herbaceous Backson, and Jagulars from A. A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh.


End file.
